by Jean M. Auel
She ran to the fireplace, turned the bison roast again, took out the cooking stones and added a couple more from the dying fire that were still hot, put a few pieces of wood in the flames, and ran toward the river. It was cold when she splashed in, but she didn’t mind. She was used to cold water. Jondalar soon joined her, carrying a large, soft buckskin hide. He put it down and entered more carefully, finally taking a deep breath and plunging in. He came up pushing his hair out of his eyes.
“That’s cold!” he said.
She came up beside him and, with a mischievous smile, splashed him. He splashed her back, and a noisy water fight ensued. With one last splash, Ayla bounded out of the water, grabbed the soft hide, and began to dry herself. She handed it to Jondalar when he emerged from the river, then hurried back to the campsite and quickly dressed. She was ladling the soup into their personal bowls as Jondalar walked up from the river.
5
The last rays of the summer sun gleamed through the branches of the trees as it dropped over the edge of the high ground to the west. Smiling at Jondalar with contentment, Ayla reached into her bowl for the last ripe raspberry and popped it in her mouth. Then she got up to clean up and arrange things for a quick and easy departure in the morning.
She gave Wolf the leftovers from their bowls and put cracked and parched grains—the wild wheat, barley, and goosefoot seeds that Nezzie had given her when they left—into the warm soup and left it at the edge of the firepit. The cooked bison roast and tongue from their meal were put into a rawhide parfleche in which she stored food. She folded the large envelope of stiff leather together, tied it with sturdy cords, and suspended it from the center of a tripod of long poles, to keep it out of the reach of night prowlers.
The tapering poles were made from whole trees, tall, thin, straight ones with the branches and bark stripped off, and Ayla carried them in special holders sticking up from the back of Whinney’s two pack baskets, just as Jondalar carried the shorter tent poles. The lengthy poles were also used on occasion to make a travois that could be dragged behind the horses to transport heavy or bulky loads. They took the long wooden poles along with them because trees that would make suitable replacements were so rare on the open steppes. Even near rivers there was often little more than tangled brush.
As the twilight deepened, Jondalar added more wood to the fire, then got the slab of ivory with the map scratched on it and brought it back to study it by the firelight. When Ayla finished and sat beside him, he seemed distracted and had that look of anxious concern that she’d often noticed the past few days. She watched him for a while, then put some stones in the fire to boil water for the evening tea it was her custom to make, but instead of the flavorful but innocuous herbs she generally used, she took some packets out of her otter-skin medicine bag. Something calming might be helpful, maybe feverfew or columbine root, in a woodruff tea, she thought, though she wished she knew what the problem was. She wanted to ask him but wasn’t sure if she should. Finally she made a decision.
“Jondalar, do you remember last winter when you weren’t sure how I felt, and I wasn’t sure how you felt?” she said.
He had been so deeply immersed in his thoughts that it took a few moments before he comprehended her question. “Of course I remember. You don’t have any doubts how much I love you, do you? I don’t have any doubts about your feelings for me.”
“No, I don’t have any doubts about that, but misunderstandings can be about many things, not just if you love me, or if I love you, and I don’t want to let anything like last winter ever happen again. I don’t think I could stand to have anymore problems just because we didn’t talk about it. Before we left the Summer Meeting, you promised to tell me if anything was bothering you. Jondalar, something is bothering you, and I wish you would tell me what it is.”
“It’s nothing, Ayla. Nothing you have to worry about.”
“But it’s something you have to worry about? If something is worrying you, don’t you think I should know about it?” she said. She took two small tea holders, each woven out of split reeds into a fine mesh, out of a wicker container in which she kept various bowls and utensils. She paused for a moment, considering, then selected the dried leaves of feverfew and woodruff, added to chamomile for Jondalar, and just the chamomile for herself, and filled the tea holders. “If it concerns you, it must concern me, too. Aren’t we traveling together?”
“Well, yes, but I’m the one who made the decision, and I don’t want to upset you unnecessarily,” Jondalar said, getting up for the waterbag, which was hanging from a pole near the entrance to the tent that was set back a few paces from the fireplace. He poured a quantity of liquid into a small cooking bowl and added the hot stones.
“I don’t know if it’s necessary or not, but you are already upsetting me. Why not tell me the reason?” She put the tea holders into their individual wooden cups, poured steaming water over them, and put them aside to steep.
Jondalar picked up the marked piece of mammoth tusk and looked at it, wishing it would tell him what lay ahead and whether he was making the right decision. When it was just his brother and him, it didn’t matter too much. They were on a Journey, an adventure, and whatever came along was part of it. He wasn’t sure, then, if they would ever return; he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to. The woman he was forbidden to love had chosen a path that led even farther away, and the one he was expected to mate was … just not the one he wanted. But this Journey was different. This time, he was with a woman he loved more than life itself. He not only wanted to get back home, but he wanted to get her there, and safely. The more he thought about the possible dangers they might encounter along the way, the more he imagined even greater ones, but his vague worries were not something he could easily explain.
“I’m just worried about how long this Journey will take. We need to reach that glacier before the end of winter,” he said.
“You told me that before,” she said. “But why? What will happen if we don’t reach it by then?” she asked.
“The ice starts to melt in spring and it becomes too dangerous to attempt a crossing.”
“Well, if it’s too dangerous, then we won’t attempt it. But if we can’t cross it, what do we do then?” she asked, pushing him to think about alternatives he had avoided thinking about. “Is there any other way to go?”
“I’m not sure. The ice we have to cross is just a small plateau glacier that’s on a highland north of the great mountains. There is land to the north of it, but no one ever goes that way. It would take us even more out of our way, and it’s cold. They say the northern ice is closer there, it dips south in that region. The land between the high mountains of the south and the great ice of the north is the coldest anywhere. It never gets warm, not even in summer,” Jondalar said.
“But isn’t it cold on that glacier you want to cross?”
“Of course, it’s cold on the glacier, too, but it’s a shorter way, and on the other side it’s only a few days to Dalanar’s Cave.” Jondalar put down the map to take the cup of hot tea Ayla was handing him, and he stared into the steaming contents for a while. “I suppose we could try a northern route around the highland glacier, if we had to, but I would not want to. That’s flathead country, anyway,” Jondalar tried to explain.
“You mean people of the Clan live north of that glacier we’re supposed to cross?” Ayla asked, stopping just as she was taking the tea holder out of her cup. She was feeling a strange mixture of dread and excitement.
“I’m sorry. I guess I should call them Clan people, but they are not the same as the ones you knew. They live very far from here, you would not believe how far. They are not the same at all.”
“But they are, Jondalar,” Ayla said, then took a sip of the hot, flavorful liquid. “Maybe their everyday language and ways might be a little different, but all Clan people have the same memories, at least the older memories. Even at the Clan Gathering, everyone knew the ancient sign language that is used to address the spirit
world, and spoke to each other with it,” Ayla said.
“But they don’t want us in their territory,” Jondalar said. “They already let us know that when Thonolan and I happened to be on the wrong side of the river.”
“I’m sure that’s true. People of the Clan don’t like to be around the Others. So, if we can’t cross the glacier when we get there, and we can’t go around it, then what do we do?” Ayla asked, going back to the original problem. “Can’t we wait until the glacier is safe to cross again?”
“Yes. I supose we’d have to, but it might be almost a year until the next winter.”
“But if we waited a year, then we could make it? Is there a place we could wait?”
“Well, yes, there are people we could stay with. The Losadunai have always been friendly. But I want to get home, Ayla,” he said, with a tone of such anguish that it made her realize just how important it was to him. “I want us to get settled.”
“I want to get settled, too, Jondalar, and I think we should do everything we can to try to get there while it’s still safe to cross the glacier. But if it’s too late, it doesn’t mean we won’t get back to your home. It only means a longer wait. And we would still be together.”
“That’s true,” Jondalar said, acquiescing but not happy. “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if we did get there late, but I don’t want to wait around for a whole year,” he said, and then his frown tightened. “And maybe if we went the other way, we would get there in time. It’s still not too late.”
“There is another way to go?”
“Yes, Talut told me we could go around the north end of the mountain range we’ll be coming to. And Rutan of Feather Grass Camp said the route was northwest of here. I’ve been thinking that maybe we should go that way, but I had hoped to see the Sharamudoi once more. If I don’t see them now, I’m afraid I never will, and they live around the south end of the mountains, along the Great Mother River,” Jondalar explained.
Ayla nodded, thinking, Now I understand. “The Sharamudoi are the people you lived with for a while; your brother mated a woman of those people, right?”
“Yes, they are like family to me.”
“Then of course we must go south so you can visit them one last time. They are people you love. If it means we may not get to the glacier in time, then we’ll wait until the next season for crossing. Even if it means waiting another year before we reach your home, don’t you think it would be worth it to see your other family again? If part of the reason you want to go home is to tell your mother about your brother, don’t you think the Sharamudoi would like to know what happened to him? They were his family, too.”
Jondalar frowned, then brightened. “You’re right, Ayla. They would want to know about Thonolan. I’ve been so worried about whether I made the right decision, I just didn’t think it through.” He smiled his relief.
Jondalar watched the flames dancing over the blackened sticks of wood, leaping and cavorting in their short-lived joy as they beat back the encroaching dark. He sipped his tea, still thinking about the long Journey ahead of them, but he didn’t feel quite as anxious about it. He looked over at Ayla. “It was a good idea to talk it over. I guess I’m still not used to having someone around that I can talk to about … things. And I think we can make it in time or I wouldn’t have decided to go this way in the first place. It will make a longer trip, but at least I know this route. I don’t know the northern way.”
“I think you made the right decision, Jondalar. If I could, if I hadn’t been cursed with death, I would visit Brun’s clan,” Ayla said, then added, so low that he could hardly hear her, “If I could, if I only could, I would go to see Durc one last time.” The forlorn, empty sound of her voice made him aware that she was feeling her loss acutely just then.
“Do you want to try to find him, Ayla?”
“Yes, of course I want to, but I can’t. It would only cause everyone distress. I was cursed. If they saw me they would think I was an evil spirit. I am dead to them, and there isn’t anything I could do or say that would convince them that I am alive.” Ayla’s eyes seemed to be looking far away, but they were seeing an inner vision, a memory.
“Besides, Durc isn’t the baby I left behind. He is getting close to manhood, though I was late in reaching womanhood, for a woman of the Clan. He is my son, and he may lag behind the other boys, too. But soon Ura will be coming to live with Brun’s clan—no, it’s Broud’s clan now,” Ayla said, frowning. “This is the summer of the Clan Gathering, so this fall Ura will leave her clan and go to live with Brun and Ebra, and when they are both old enough, she will be Durc’s mate.” She paused, then added, “I wish I could be there to welcome her, but I would only scare her, and maybe make her think Durc is unlucky, if the spirit of his strange mother won’t stay where she belongs in the other world.”
“Are you sure, Ayla? I mean it, we’ll take the time to look for them, if you want,” Jondalar said.
“Even if I wanted to find him,” she said, “I wouldn’t know where to look. I don’t know where their new cave is, and I don’t know where the Clan Gathering is. It is not meant for me to see Durc. He is not my son anymore. I gave him to Uba. He is Uba’s son now.” Ayla looked up at Jondalar. He noticed that tears were threatening. “I knew when Rydag died I would never see Durc again. I buried Rydag in Durc’s carrying cloak, the one I took with me when I left the Clan, and in my heart, I buried Durc at the same time. I know I will never see Durc again. I am dead to him, and it’s best if he is dead to me.”
The tears were wetting her cheeks, though she seemed oblivious to them, as though she didn’t know they had begun. “I’m really lucky, you know. Think of Nezzie. Rydag was a son to her, she nursed him even if she didn’t give birth to him, and she knew she would lose him. She even knew that no matter how long he lived, he would never have a normal life. Other mothers who lose their sons can only imagine them in another world, living with spirits, but I can imagine Durc here, always safe, always lucky, always happy. I can think of him living with Ura, having children at his hearth … even if I will never see them.” The sob in her voice finally opened the way to let her grief out.
Jondalar took her in his arms and held her. Thinking of Rydag made him sad, too. There was nothing anyone could have done for him, though everyone knew Ayla had tried. He was a weak child. Nezzie said he always had been. But Ayla had given him something no one else could. After she came and started teaching him, and the rest of the Lion Camp, to talk the way the Clan did, with hand signs, he was happier than he had ever been. It was the first time in all his young life that he had been able to communicate with the people he loved. He could let his needs and wishes be known, and he could let people know how he felt, especially Nezzie, who had taken care of him since his real mother died, at his birth. He could finally tell her that he loved her.
It had been a surprise to the members of the Lion Camp, but once they realized that he wasn’t just a rather clever animal, without the ability to speak, but instead, a different kind of person, with a different kind of language, they began to understand that he was intelligent, and to accept him as a person. It had been no less a surprise to Jondalar, even though she had tried to tell him, after he began to teach her to speak with words again. He had learned the signs along with the others, and he had come to appreciate the gentle humor and the depth of understanding in the young boy from the ancient race.
Jondalar held the woman he loved as she heaved great sobs in the release of her sorrow. He knew Ayla had held back her grief over the death of the half-Clan child that Nezzie had adopted, who had reminded her so much of her own son, and understood she was grieving for that son as well.
But it was more than Rydag or Durc. Ayla was grieving for all her losses: for the ones from long ago, her loved ones from the Clan, and for the loss of the Clan itself. Brun’s clan had been her family, Iza and Creb had raised her, cared for her, and in spite of her difference, there was a time when she thought of herself as Clan. Though sh
e had chosen to leave with Jondalar because she loved him and wanted to be with him, their talk had made her realize how far away he lived; it would take a year, maybe two years just to travel there. The full understanding of what that meant had finally come to her; she would never return.
She was not only giving up her new life with the Mamutoi, who had offered her a place among them, she was giving up any faint hope she might have had of seeing the people of her clan again, or the son she had left with them. She had lived with her old sorrows long enough so that they had eased a little, but Rydag had died not long before they left the Summer Meeting, and his death was still too fresh, the grief still too raw. The pain of it had brought back the pain of her other losses, and the realization of the distance she would be putting between them had brought the knowledge that the hope of recovering that part of her past would have to die, too.
Ayla had already lost her early life; she had no idea who her real mother was, or who her people were, the ones she had been born to. Except for faint recollections—feelings more than anything—she could not remember anything before the time of the earthquake, or any people before the Clan. But the Clan had banished her; Broud had put the curse of death upon her. To them she was dead and now she came to the full understanding that she had lost that part of her life when they turned her out. From this time on, she would never know where she came from, she would never meet a childhood friend, she would never know anyone, not even Jondalar, who would comprehend the background that made her who she was.
Ayla accepted the loss of her past, except that which lived in her mind and in her heart, but she grieved for it, and she wondered what lay ahead when she reached the end of her Journey. Whatever awaited her, whatever his people were like, she would have nothing else; only her memories … and the future.
Within the wooded glade it was completely black. Not the faintest hint of a silhouette or darker shadow could be discerned against the surrounding background, except for a faint redness from the lingering coals in the fireplace, and the blazing epiphany of stars. With only a slight breeze penetrating the protected grove, they had moved their sleeping furs outside the tent. Ayla lay awake under the starlit sky, staring up at the patterns of constellations and listening to the night sounds: the wind sifting through the trees, the soft liquid running of the river, the chirk of crickets, the harsh harumph of a bullfrog. She heard a loud plunk and splashing, then the eerie who-whoing of an owl, and in the distance, the deep roar of a lion and the loud trumpet of a mammoth.