The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  After S’Armuna translated, Attaroa left abruptly, signaling the woman to follow.

  “I hold you responsible,” Jondalar said to S’Armuna’s retreating back.

  As soon as the gate closed, one of the guard women said, “You’d better come and get it, before she changes her mind.”

  The men rushed for the platters of meat on the ground. As S’Amodun passed by, he stopped. “Be very careful, Zelandonii. She has something special in mind for you.”

  The next few days passed slowly for Jondalar. Some water, but little additional food was brought in, and no one was allowed out, not even to work, which was very unusual. It made the men uneasy, especially since Ardemun was also kept inside the Holding. His knowledge of several languages had made Ardemun first a translator and then a spokesman between Attaroa and the men. Because of his lame, dislocated leg, she felt he posed no threat and, further, would not be able to run away. He was given more freedom to move around the Camp, and he often brought back bits of information about the life outside the Men’s Camp and occasionally extra food.

  Most of the men passed the time playing games and gambling for future promises, using as playing pieces small sticks of wood, pebbles, and even some broken pieces of bone from meat they had been given. The legbone from the shank of horsemeat had been put aside, after it was stripped clean and cracked for the marrow, for just such a possible purpose.

  Jondalar spent the first day of his confinement examining in close detail and testing the strength of the entire fence that surrounded them. He found several places that he thought he could have broken through or climbed over, but through the cracks Epadoa and her women could be seen diligently guarding them, and the terrible infection of the man with the wound deterred him from such a direct approach. He also looked over the lean-to, thinking of several things that could be done to repair it and make it more weatherproof … if only he’d had the tools and materials.

  By mutual consent, one end of the enclosed space, behind a jumble of stones—the only other feature beside the lean-to in their barren confinement—had been set aside for passing water and eliminating their wastes. Jondalar became nauseatingly aware of the smell permeating the entire enclosure on the second day. It was worse near the lean-to, where the putrefying flesh of morbid infection added its malodorous aroma, but at night he had no choice. He huddled together with the others for warmth, sharing his makeshift cloak with those who had even less to cover them.

  In the days that followed, his sensitivity to the odor dulled, and he hardly noticed his hunger, but he did seem to feel the cold more and was dizzy and light-headed occasionally. He wished for some willow-bark for his headache, too.

  The circumstances began to change when the man with the wound finally died. Ardemun went to the gate and asked to speak to Attaroa or Epadoa, so the body could be removed and buried. Several men were let out for the purpose, and later they were told that all who could would attend the burial rites. Jondalar was almost ashamed by the excitement he felt at the thought of getting out of the Holding, since the reason for the temporary release was a death.

  Outside, long shadows of a late afternoon sun spread across the ground, highlighting features of the distant valley and river below, and Jondalar felt an almost overwhelming sense of the beauty and grandeur of the open landscape. His appreciation was interrupted by a prick of pain on his arm. He looked down with annoyance at Epadoa and three of her women surrounding him with spears, and it took a large measure of self-control to prevent himself from pushing them out of his way.

  “She wants you to put your hands behind your back so they can tie them,” Ardemun said. “You can’t go if your hands are not tied.”

  Jondalar scowled, but he complied. As he followed Ardemun, he thought about his predicament. He wasn’t even sure where he was, or how long he had been here, but the thought of spending anymore time cooped up in that Holding, with nothing but the fence to look at, was more than he could bear. One way or another, he was getting out, and soon. If he didn’t, he could foresee a time when he might not be able to. A few days without food was no great problem, but if it continued for very long, it could become one. Besides, if there was any chance at all that Ayla was still alive, hurt perhaps, but still alive, he had to find her fast. He didn’t know yet how he was going to accomplish it, he only knew he was not going to stay there very much longer.

  They walked some distance, crossing a stream and getting wet feet along the way. The perfunctory funeral was over quickly, and Jondalar wondered why Attaroa bothered with a burial ceremony at all when she showed no concern for the man while he was alive. If she had, he might not have died. He had not known the man, he didn’t even know his name, he had only seen him in his suffering—unnecessary suffering. Now he was gone, walking in the next world, but free from Attaroa. Perhaps that was better than spending years looking at the inside of a fence.

  As short as the ceremony was, Jondalar’s feet were cold from standing in wet footwear. On the way back, he paid more attention to the small waterway, trying to find a stepping-stone or a way across that would keep his feet dry. But when he looked down, he didn’t care. Almost as though it were intended, he saw two stones next to each other at the edge of the stream. One was a small but adequate nodule of flint; the other was a roundish stone that looked as though it would just fit in his hand—the perfect shape for a hammerstone.

  “Ardemun,” he said to the man in back of him, then spoke in Zelandonii. “Do you see these two stones?” He indicated them with his foot. “Can you get them for me? It’s very important.”

  “That is flint?”

  “Yes, and I’m a flint knapper.”

  Suddenly Ardemun appeared to trip, and he fell down heavily. The crippled man had trouble getting up, and a woman with a spear approached. She spoke sharply to one of the men, who offered his hand to help him up. Epadoa marched back to see what was holding up the men. Ardemun got to his feet just before she arrived, and he stood contritely apologetic while she railed at him.

  When they got back, Ardemun and Jondalar went to the end of the Holding, where the stones were, to pass their water. When they returned to the lean-to, Ardemun told the men that the hunters had returned with more meat from the horse kill, but something had happened while the second group was returning. He didn’t know what it was, but it was causing some commotion among the women. They were all talking, but he hadn’t been able to overhear anything specific.

  That evening, food and water were brought to the men again, but not even the servers were allowed to stay and slice the meat. It had been precut into chunks and left for the men on a few logs, with no conversation. The men talked about it while they were eating.

  “Something strange is going on,” Ebulan said, switching to Mamutoi so Jondalar could understand. “I think the women were ordered not to speak to us.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Olamun said. “If we did know something, what could we do about it?”

  “You’re right, Olamun. It doesn’t make sense, but I agree with Ebulan. I think the women were told not to speak,” S’Amodun said.

  “Maybe this is the time, then,” Jondalar said. “If Epadoa’s women are busy talking, maybe they won’t notice.”

  “Notice what?” Olamun said.

  “Ardemun managed to pick up a piece of flint …”

  “So that’s what it was all about,” Ebulan said. “I couldn’t see anything that would make him trip and fall.”

  “But what good is a piece of flint?” Olamun said. “You have to have tools to make it into anything. I used to watch the flint knapper, before he died.”

  “Yes, but he also picked up a hammerstone, and there is some bone around here. It’s enough to make a few blades and shape them into knives and points, and a few other tools—if it’s a good piece of flint.”

  “You’re a flint knapper?” Olamun said.

  “Yes, but I’m going to need some help. Some noise to cover up the sound of stones hitting stones,
” Jondalar said.

  “But even if he can make some knives, what good will they be? The women have spears,” Olamun said.

  “For one thing, they’re good for cutting the rope off someone whose hands are tied,” Ebulan said. “I’m sure we can think of a competition or game that will cover up the noise. The light is almost gone, though.”

  “There should be enough. It won’t take me long to make the tools and the points. Then tomorrow I can work inside the lean-to, where they can’t see. I’ll need that legbone and those logs, and maybe a piece of a plank from the lean-to. It would help if I had some sinew, but thin strips of leather should work. And, Ardemun, if you find any feathers while you are out of the Holding, I could use them.”

  Ardemun nodded, then said, “You’re going to make something that will fly? Like a throwing spear?”

  “Yes, something that will fly. It will take careful whittling and shaping, and that will take some time. But I think I can make a weapon that might surprise you,” Jondalar said.

  28

  The next morning, before Jondalar began further work on the flint tools, he talked to S’Amodun about the two injured youngsters. He had thought about it the night before, and, recalling how Darvo had taken to flint knapping even as a young boy, he felt that if they could be taught a craft, like flint knapping, they could lead independent and useful lives even though they were crippled.

  “With Attaroa as headwoman, do you really think they will ever have the opportunity?” S’Amodun asked.

  “She allows Ardemun more freedom; she might feel that the two boys will not be a threat, either, and let them out of the Holding more often. Even Attaroa might be persuaded to see the logic of having a couple of toolmakers around. Her hunters’ weapons are poorly made,” Jondalar said. “And who knows? She may not be a leader much longer.”

  S’Amodun eyed the blond stranger speculatively. “I wonder if you know something I don’t,” he said. “In any case, I will encourage them to come and watch you.”

  Jondalar had worked outside the evening before, so the sharp chips that broke off in the process of knapping the flint would not be scattered around their only shelter. He had picked a spot somewhat behind the stone pile near the place where they passed their wastes. Because of the smell, it was the end of the enclosure that the guards tended to avoid, and was watched the least.

  The blade-shaped pieces he had quickly detached from the flint core were at least four times as long as they were wide with rounded ends, and these were the blanks from which other tools would be made. The edges were razor sharp as they were cleaved from the flint core, sharp enough to cut through tough leather as if it were congealed fat. The blades were so sharp, in fact, that often the edges had to be dulled so the tool could be handled without cutting the user.

  Inside the lean-to the following morning, the first thing Jondalar did was to select a place under a crack in the roof, so he would have sufficient light to work by. Then he cut off a piece of leather from his makeshift cloak and spread it out on the ground to catch the inevitable sharp bits of flint debris. With the two lame boys and several others seated around him, he proceeded to demonstrate how a hard oval stone and a few pieces of bone could be used to make tools of flint, which in turn could be used to shape and make things out of leather, wood, and bone. Though they had to be careful not to draw attention to their activity, getting up occasionally to maintain a normal routine, then coming back and huddling together for warmth, which also served to block the view of their guards, they all watched with fascination.

  Jondalar picked up a blade and examined it critically. There were several different tools he wanted to make, and he was trying to decide which of them would lend itself best to this particular blank. One long, sharp edge was nearly straight, the other wavered somewhat. He started by dulling the uneven edge by scraping the hammerstone across it a few times. He left the other edge as it was. Then, with the long tapered end of a broken legbone, he pressure-flaked the rounded end, breaking off carefully controlled small chips until it was a point. If he’d had sinew, or glue, or pitch, or a number of other materials with which to attach it, he could have added a handle, but when he was through, it was an adequate knife as it was.

  As the tool was passed around and tested on the hair of an arm or bits of leather, Jondalar picked up another blade blank. Both edges of it dipped in to a narrow waist near the middle. Applying careful pressure with the knobby, rounded end of the legbone, he broke off only the sharpest edge of both lengths, which dulled them only slightly but, more important, strengthened them, so this piece could be used as a scraper to shape and smooth a piece of wood or bone. He showed how it was used and passed it around, too.

  With the next blank, he dulled both edges so the tool could be handled easily. Then, with two carefully placed blows at one end of it, he detached a couple of spalls, leaving a sharp, chisellike point. To demonstrate its use, he cut a groove into a piece of bone, then went over the groove many times, making it deeper and deeper and creating a little pile of curled shavings. He explained how a shaft, or a point, or a handle, could be cut out with roughly the desired shape, then finished by scraping or smoothing.

  Jondalar’s demonstration was almost a revelation. None of the boys or younger men had ever seen an expert flint-knapping toolmaker work, and few of the older men had ever seen one so skilled. In the few moments of twilight the night before, he had managed to cleave off nearly thirty usable blanks from the single nodule of flint before the flint core was too small to work. By the next day, most of the men had used one or more of the tools he made from them.

  Then he tried to explain the hunting weapon he wanted to show them. Some of the men seemed to understand him immediately although they invariably questioned the accuracy and speed he claimed for a spear thrown with a spear-thrower. Others couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of it at all, but it didn’t matter.

  Having good serviceable tools in their hands, and working on something constructive with them, gave the men a sense of purpose. And doing anything that opposed Attaroa, and the conditions she had forced upon them, lifted the despair of the Men’s Camp and fostered the hope that it might be possible, someday, to regain control of their own destiny.

  Epadoa and her guards sensed a change in attitude over the next few days, and she felt sure something was going on. The men seemed to walk with a lighter step, and they smiled too much, but as hard as she looked, she couldn’t see anything different. The men had been extremely careful to hide not only the knives and scrapers and chisels Jondalar had made, and the objects they were making, but even the waste products of their efforts. The smallest flint chip or spall, the tiniest curled shaving of wood or bone, was buried inside the lean-to and covered with a roof plank or a piece of leather.

  But the greatest change of all was in the two crippled boys. Jondalar not only showed the youngsters how the tools were made, he made special tools for them, and then showed them both how to use them. They stopped hiding in the shadows of the lean-to and began to get acquainted with the other, older boys in the Holding. Both idolized the tall Zelandonii, Doban in particular, who was old enough to comprehend more, though he was reluctant to show it.

  For as long as he could remember, living with the disturbed and irrational Attaroa, Ardoban had always felt helpless, completely at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control. In a tiny corner of his being, he had always expected something terrible to happen to him, and after the excruciatingly painful and terrifying trauma of his experience, he was convinced that his life would only get worse. He often wished he were dead. But watching someone take two stones that he found near a stream and with them, using the skill of his hands and the knowledge in his mind, offer the hope of changing his world, made a deep impression. Doban was afraid to ask—he still couldn’t trust anyone—but more than anything, he wanted to learn to make tools out of stone.

  The man sensed his interest and wished that he had more flint, so he could begin to teach him,
at least to get him started. Did these people go to any kind of Summer Meetings or Gatherings, he wondered, where ideas and information and goods could be exchanged? There had to be some flint knappers in the region who could train Doban. He needed to learn a skill like that, where being lame wouldn’t matter.

  After Jondalar made a sample spear-thrower out of wood, to show them what it looked like and how to make it, several of the men began to make copies of the strange implement. He also made flint spear points from some of the blanks, and out of the strongest leather they had he cut thin strips for bindings to fasten them with. Ardemun even found the ground nest of a golden eagle and brought back some good flight feathers. The only thing lacking were the shafts for the spears.

  Trying to make one out of the scanty materials that were available, Jondalar cut a fairly long, thin piece out of a plank with the sharp chisel tool. He used it to show the younger men how to fasten the point and attach the feathers, and he demonstrated how to hold the spear-thrower and the basic technique for using it, without actually casting the spear. But cutting a spear shaft out of a plank was a long and tedious job, and the wood was dry and brittle, with no spring, and it broke easily.

  What he needed were young, straight saplings, or reasonably long branches that could be straightened; though for that he needed the heat of a fire. He felt so frustrated stuck in the Holding. If only he could get out and look for something with which to make shafts. If only he could convince Attaroa to let him out. When he mentioned his feelings to Ebulan as they were getting ready to sleep, the man looked at him strangely, started to say something, then shook his head, closed his eyes, and turned away. Jondalar thought it was a strange reaction, but he soon forgot about it and fell asleep thinking about the problem.

  Attaroa had been thinking about Jondalar, too. She was looking forward to the diversion he would give her through the long winter, gaining control over him, and seeing him do her bidding, showing everyone that she was more powerful than the tall, handsome man. Then, when she was through with him, she had other plans for him. She had been wondering if he was ready to be let out and set to work. Epadoa had told her that she thought something was going on inside the Holding, and that the stranger was involved, but she hadn’t yet discovered what it was. Perhaps it was time to separate him from the other men for a while, Attaroa thought, maybe put him back in the cage. It was a good way to keep them all unsettled.