by Jean M. Auel
Ayla bowed her head. If someone had known what to do for her when Iza died, she might not have lost her milk and had to give her son to the other women with babies to nurse. Would she know what to do if that happened to someone she was taking care of? Would knowledge of the spirit world help her to know what to do?
Rydag was watching the tense scene, knowing he had been forgotten for the moment. He was afraid to move, afraid it would distract them from something very important, though he wasn’t sure what it was.
“Ayla, what is it you fear? What happened to make you turn away? Tell me about it,” Mamut said, his voice persuasively warm.
Ayla got up suddenly. She picked up the warm furs and tucked them around the old shaman. “Must cover, keep warm for poultice to work,” she said, obviously distracted and upset. Mamut lay back, allowed her to complete her treatment of him without objection, realizing she needed time. She began to pace, nervous and agitated, her eyes unfocused, staring into space or at some internal scene. She spun around and faced him.
“I did not mean to!” she said.
“What didn’t you mean to do?” Mamut said.
“Go into cave … see mog-urs.”
“When did you go into the cave, Ayla?” Mamut knew the restrictions against women participating in Clan rituals. She must have done something she wasn’t supposed to, broken some taboo, he thought.
“At Clan Gathering.”
“You went to a Clan Gathering? They hold a Gathering once every seven years, isn’t that right?”
Ayla nodded.
“How long ago was this Gathering?”
She had to stop, think about it, and the concentration cleared her mind a bit. “Durc was just born then, in spring. Next summer, will be seven years! Next summer, is Clan Gathering. Clan will go to Gathering, bring Ura back. Ura and Durc will mate. My son will be man soon!”
“Is that true, Ayla? He will be only seven years when he mates? Your son will be a man so young?” Mamut asked.
“No, not so young. Maybe three, four more years. He is … like Druwez. Not yet man. But mother of Ura ask me for Durc, for Ura. She is child of mixed spirits, too. Ura will live with Brun and Ebra. When Durc and Ura old enough, will mate.”
Rydag stared at Ayla in disbelief. He didn’t entirely understand all the implications, but one thing seemed certain. She had a son, mixed like him, who lived with the Clan!
“What happened at the Clan Gathering seven years ago, Ayla?” Mamut asked, not wanting to let it drop when he had seemed so close to getting an agreement from Ayla to begin training, although she had brought up some intriguing points he would like to ask her about. He was convinced that it was not only important, it was essential, for her own sake.
Ayla closed her eyes with a pained expression. “Iza is too sick to go. She tell Brun I am medicine woman, Brun make ceremony. She tell me how to chew root to make drink for mog-urs. Tell only, cannot show me. Is too … sacred to make for practice. Mog-urs at Clan Gathering not want me, I am not Clan. But no one else knows, only Iza’s line. Finally say yes. Iza tell me not swallow juice when I chew, spit into bowl, but I cannot. I swallow some. Later, I am confused, go into cave, follow fires, find mog-urs. They not see me, but Creb knows.”
She became agitated again, paced back and forth. “It is dark, like deep hole, and I am falling.” She hunched her shoulders, rubbed her arms, as though she was cold. “Then Creb come, like you, Mamut, but more. He … he … take me with him.”
She was silent then, pacing. Finally she stopped and spoke again. “Later, Creb is very angry and unhappy. And I am … different. I never say, but sometimes I think I go back there, and I am … frightened.”
Mamut waited, to see if she was finished. He had some idea what she had gone through. He had been allowed at a Clan ceremony. They used certain plants in unique ways, and he had experienced something unfathomable. He had tried, but he had never been able to duplicate the experience, even after he became Mamut. He was about to say something when Ayla spoke again.
“Sometimes I want to throw root away, but Iza tell me is sacred.”
It took a moment for the meaning of Ayla’s words to register, but the shock of recognition nearly brought him to his feet.
“Are you saying you have that root with you?” he asked, finding it difficult to control his excitement.
“When I leave, take medicine bag. Root is in medicine bag, in special red pouch.”
“But is it still good? You say it’s been more than three years since you left. Wouldn’t it lose potency in that time?”
“No, is prepared special way. After root is dried, keeps long time. Many years.”
“Ayla,” the Mamut began, trying to phrase his words just right, “it could be very fortunate that you have it still. You know, the best way to overcome a fear is to face it. Would you be willing to prepare that root again? Just for you and me?”
Ayla shivered at the thought. “I do not know, Mamut. I do not want to. I am frightened.”
“I don’t mean right away,” he said. “Not until you have had some training and are prepared for it. And it should be a special ceremony, with deep meaning and significance. Perhaps the Spring Festival, the beginning of new life.” He saw her shake again. “It’s up to you, but you do not have to decide now. All I ask is that you allow me to begin training and preparation. When spring comes, if you don’t feel ready, you can say no.”
“What is training?” Ayla asked.
“First, I would want you to learn certain songs and chants, and how to use the mammoth skull. Then there is the meaning of certain symbols and signs.”
Rydag watched her close her eyes and frown. He hoped she would agree. He had just learned more about his mother’s people than he ever knew, but he wanted to learn more. If Mamut and Ayla planned a ceremony with Clan rituals, he was sure he would.
When Ayla opened them, her eyes looked troubled, but she swallowed hard, and then nodded. “Yes, Mamut. I try to face fear of spirit world, if you will help me.”
As Mamut lay back down, he didn’t notice Ayla clutch the small decorated bag she wore around her neck.
21
“Hu! Hu! Hu! That’s three!” Crozie cried out, chuckling shrewdly as she counted the discs with the marked side up that had been caught in the shallow woven bowl.
“Your turn again,” Nezzie said. They were sitting on the floor beside the circular pit of dry loess soil, which Talut had used to map out a hunting plan. “You still have seven to go, I’ll bet two more.” She made two more lines on the smoothed surface of the drawing pit.
Crozie picked up the wicker bowl and shook the seven small ivory discs together. The discs, which bellied out slightly so that they rocked when they were on a flat surface, were plain on one side; the other side was carved with lines and colored. Keeping the wide, shallow bowl near the floor, Crozie flipped the discs into the air. Then, moving it smartly across the red-bordered mat that outlined the boundaries of the playing area, she caught the discs in the basket. This time four of the discs had their marked side up and only three were plain.
“Look at that! Four! Only three to go. I’ll wager five more.”
Ayla, sitting on a mat nearby, sipped tea from her wooden cup and watched the old woman shake the discs together in the bowl again. Crozie threw them up and caught them once more. This time five discs had the side with marks carved into them showing.
“I win! Do you want to try again, Nezzie?”
“Well, maybe one more game,” Nezzie said, reaching for the wicker bowl and shaking it. She tossed the discs in the air, and caught them in the flat basket.
“There’s the black eye!” Crozie cried, pointing to a disc that had turned up a side which was colored black. “You lose! That makes twelve you owe me. Do you want to play another game?”
“No, you’re too lucky today,” Nezzie said, getting up.
“How about you, Ayla?” Crozie said. “Do you want to play a game?”
“I am not good a
t that game,” Ayla said. “I do not catch all the pieces sometimes.”
She had watched the gaming many times as the bitter cold of the long season deepened, but had played little, and then only for practice. She knew Crozie was a serious player who did not play for practice, and had little patience with inept or indecisive players.
“Well, how about Knucklebones? You don’t need any skill to play that.”
“I would play, but I do not know what to bet,” Ayla said.
“Nezzie and I play for marks and settle it out later.”
“Now or later, I do not know what to bet.”
“Certainly you have something you can wager,” Crozie said, somewhat impatient to get on with the game. “Something of value.”
“And you wager something of same value?”
The old woman nodded brusquely. “Of course.”
Ayla frowned with concentration. “Maybe … furs, or leather, or something to make. Wait! I think I know something. Jondalar played with Mamut and bet skill. He made special knife when he lost. Is skill good to bet, Crozie?”
“Why not?” she said. “I’ll mark it, here,” Crozie said, smoothing the dirt with the flat side of the drawing knife. The woman picked up two objects from the ground beside her and held them out, one in each hand. “We’ll count three marks to a game. If you guess right, you get a mark. If you guess wrong, I get a mark. The first one to get three, wins the game.”
Ayla looked at the two metacarpal bones of a musk-ox which she held, one painted with red and black lines, the other plain. “I should pick the plain one, that is right?” she asked.
“That is right,” Crozie said, a crafty gleam in her eye. “Are you ready?” She rubbed both palms together with the knucklebones inside, but she looked over at Jondalar sitting with Danug in the flintworking area. “Is he really as good as they say?” she said, cocking her head in his direction.
Ayla glanced toward the man, blond head bent close to the red-haired boy’s. When she looked back around, Crozie had both hands behind her back.
“Yes. Jondalar is good,” she said.
Had Crozie purposely tried to direct her attention elsewhere, to distract her? she wondered. She looked at the woman carefully, noticing the slight tilt of her shoulders, the way she held her head, the expression on her face.
Crozie brought her hands in front of her again and held them out, each closed into a fist around a bone. Ayla studied the wrinkled face, which had become blank and unexpressive, and the white-knuckled arthritic old hands. Was one hand pulled in just a trifle closer to her chest? Ayla picked the other.
“You lose!” Crozie gloated, as she opened the hand to show the bone marked with red and black. She drew a short line in the drawing pit. “Are you ready to try again?”
“Yes,” Ayla said.
This time Crozie began humming to herself as she rubbed the bones together between her palms. She closed her eyes, then looked up at the ceiling and stared, as though she saw something interesting near the smoke hole. Ayla was tempted to look up to see what was so fascinating, and started to follow Crozie’s gaze. Then remembering the cunning trick that had been used to divert her attention before, she quickly looked back, in time to see the crafty old woman glance between her palms as she snatched her hands behind her back. A knowing smile of grudging respect flitted across the old face. The movement of her shoulders and arm muscles gave the impression of movement between the hidden hands. Did Crozie think Ayla had glimpsed one of the bones, and was she exchanging the pieces? Or did Crozie just want her to think so?
There was more to this game than guessing, Ayla thought, and it was more interesting to play than to watch. Crozie showed her bony-knuckled fists again. Ayla looked at her carefully, not making it obvious. It wasn’t polite to stare, for one thing, and on a more subtle level, she didn’t want Crozie to know what she was looking for. It was hard to tell, the woman was an old hand at the game, but it did seem that the other shoulder was a shade higher, and wasn’t the other hand pulled in slightly this time? Ayla chose the hand she thought Crozie wanted her to pick, the wrong one.
“Ha! You lost again!” Crozie said, elated, then quickly added, “Are you ready?”
Before Ayla could nod in agreement, Crozie had her hands behind her back, and out for her to guess, but she was leaning forward this time. Ayla resisted, smiling. The old woman was always changing something, trying to keep from giving any consistent signal. Ayla chose the hand she thought was right, and was rewarded with a mark in the drawing pit. The next time, Crozie changed her position again, lowering her hands, and Ayla guessed wrong.
“That’s three! I win. But you can’t really test your luck with only one game. Do you want to play another?” Crozie said.
“Yes. Would like to play again,” Ayla said.
Crozie smiled, but when Ayla guessed correctly the next two times, her expression was much less agreeable. She frowned as she rubbed the musk-ox knucklebones together a third time.
“Look over there! What’s that?” Crozie said, pointing with her chin, in a blatant attempt to distract the young woman.
Ayla looked, and when she looked back, the old woman was smiling again. The young woman took her time selecting the hand which held the winning bone, though she had decided quickly. She didn’t want Crozie to feel too upset, but she had learned to interpret the unconscious body signals the woman made when playing the game, and she knew in which hand the plain bone was as clearly as if Crozie had told her.
It would not have pleased Crozie to know she was giving herself away so easily, but Ayla had an unusual advantage. She was so accustomed to observing and interpreting subtle details of posture and expression, it was almost instinctive. They were an essential part of the language of the Clan that communicated nuances and shades of meaning. She had noticed that body movements and postures also expressed meaning among these people who communicated primarily with verbal sounds, but that it was not purposeful.
Ayla had been so busy trying to learn the spoken language of her new people she hadn’t made any real effort to understand their unconscious unspoken language. Now that she was comfortably, if not precisely, fluent, she could expand her communication to include language skills that were not normally considered a part of speaking. The game she played with Crozie made her realize how much she could learn about her own kind of people by applying the knowledge and insight she had learned from the Clan. And if the Clan could not lie because body language was impossible to hide, the ones she had known as the Others could keep secrets from her even less. They didn’t even know they were “talking.” She wasn’t fully able to interpret the body signals of the Others, yet … but she was learning.
Ayla chose the hand that held the plain musk-ox knucklebone, and with a jab of irritation, Crozie marked a third line for Ayla. “The luck is yours, now,” she said. “Since I won a game, and you won a game, we might as well call it even and forget the bets.”
“No,” Ayla said. “We bet skill. You win my skill. My skill is medicine. I will give you. I want your skill.”
“What skill?” Crozie said. “My skill at gaming? That’s what I do best these days, and you already beat me. What do you want me for?”
“No, not gaming. I want to make white leather,” Ayla said.
Crozie gaped in surprise. “White leather?”
“White leather, like tunic you wear at adoption.”
“I haven’t made white leather in years,” Crozie said.
“But you can make?” Ayla asked.
“Yes.” Crozie’s eyes softened with a distant look. “I learned as a girl, from my mother. At one time it was sacred to the Hearth of the Crane, or so the legends say. No one else could wear it …” The old woman’s eyes hardened. “But that was before the Crane Hearth fell into such low esteem that even Bride Price is a pittance.” She looked hard at the young woman. “What is white leather to you?”
“It is beautiful,” Ayla said, which brought an involuntary softening to Cro
zie’s eyes again. “And white is sacred to someone,” she finished, looking down at her hands. “I want to make special tunic the way someone likes. Special white tunic.”
Ayla didn’t notice Crozie glance toward Jondalar, who happened at that moment to be staring at them. He looked aside quickly, seemingly embarrassed. The old woman shook her head at the young one, whose head was still bowed.
“And what do I get for it?” Crozie said.
“You will teach me?” Ayla said, looking up and smiling. She noticed a gleam of avarice in the old eyes, but something else, too. Something more distant, and softer. “I will make medicine for arthritis,” she said, “like Mamut.”
“Who says I need it?” Crozie snapped. “I’m not nearly as old as he is.”
“No, you are not so old, Crozie, but you have pain. You do not say you have pain, you make other complaint, but I know, because I am medicine woman. Medicine cannot cure aching bones and joints, nothing can make it go away, but can make you feel better. Hot poultice will make easier to move and bend, and I will make medicine for pain, some for morning, some for other times,” Ayla said. Then sensing the woman needed some way to save face, she added, “I need to make medicine for you, to pay my bet. It is my skill.”
“Well, I guess I should let you pay your bet,” Crozie said, “but I want one more thing.”
“What? I will do, if I can.”
“I want more of that soft white tallow that makes dry old skin feel smooth … and young,” she said, quietly. Then she straightened up and snapped, “My skin always did get chapped in winter.”
Ayla smiled. “I will do. Now, you tell me what is best hide for white leather, and I will ask Nezzie what is in cold rooms.”