by Jean M. Auel
“That makes sense,” Jondalar said, nodding.
“When men hunt together,” Ayla continued, “they have to help each other, and they often save each other’s lives, so a piece of each one’s spirit usually belongs to each of the others. It makes them kin in a way that goes beyond family. Hunters in a clan may be related, but the kinship of family cannot be stronger than the bond between the hunters, because they cannot favor one over the other. They all have to depend on each other.”
“There is wisdom in that,” Jondalar said thoughtfully.
“That’s called a kinship debt. This man doesn’t know the customs of the Others, and he doesn’t think much of what he does know.”
“After Charoli and his band, who can blame him?”
“It goes much beyond that, Jondalar. But he’s not happy about being in our debt.”
“He told you all this?”
“No, of course not, but the language of the Clan is more than signs made with the hands. It’s the way a person sits, or stands, expressions on the face, small things, but they all have meaning. I grew up with a clan. Those things are as much a part of me as they are of him. I know what’s bothering him. If he could accept me as a medicine woman of the Clan, it would help.”
“What difference would that make?” Jondalar said.
“It means I already own a piece of his spirit,” Ayla said.
“But you don’t even know him! How can you own a piece of his spirit?”
“A medicine woman saves lives. She could claim a piece of the spirit of everyone she saves, could ‘own’ pieces of everyone before many years have gone by. So when she is made a medicine woman, she gives a piece of her spirit to the Clan, and receives a piece of every Clan person in return. That way, no matter who she saves, the debt is already paid. That’s why a medicine woman has status in her own right.” Ayla looked thoughtful, then said, “This is the first time I’m glad the Clan spirits were not taken back …” She paused.
Jondalar started to speak. Then he noticed that she was staring into the empty air, and he realized she was looking inside herself.
“… When I was cursed with death,” she continued. “I’ve worried about that for a long time. After Iza died, Creb took all the spirit pieces back, so they would not go with her to the next world. But when Broud had me cursed, no one took them back from me, even though to the Clan I am dead.”
“What would happen if they knew that?” Jondalar asked, indicating with a discreet twist of his head the two Clan people who were watching them.
“I would not exist to them anymore. They would not see me; they would not let themselves see me. I could stand right in front of them and scream, and they would not hear it. They would think I was a bad spirit trying to trap them into the next world,” Ayla said, closing her eyes and shuddering with the memory.
“But why did you say you were glad that you still had the spirit pieces?” Jondalar asked.
“Because I can’t say one thing and mean something else. I can’t lie to him. He would know it. But I can refrain from mentioning. That’s allowed, out of courtesy, for the sake of privacy. I don’t have to say anything about the curse, even though he would probably know I was holding something back, but I can talk about being a medicine woman of the Clan, because it’s true. I still am. I still own the spirit pieces.” She frowned then, with worry. “But someday I will really die, Jondalar. If I go to the next world with the spirit pieces of everyone in the Clan, what will happen to them?”
“I don’t know, Ayla,” he said.
She shrugged, putting the thought aside. “Well, it’s this world I need to worry about now. If he will accept me as a medicine woman of the Clan, then he won’t have to be so concerned about owing a debt to me. It’s bad enough for him to owe a kinship debt to one of the Others, but worse if it’s a woman, especially one who used a weapon.”
“But you hunted when you lived with the Clan,” Jondalar reminded her.
“That was a special exception, and only because I survived a moon-cycle curse of death for hunting and using a sling. Brun allowed it because my Cave Lion totem protected me. He thought of it as a testing, and I think it finally gave him a reason to accept a woman with such a strong totem. He’s the one who gave me my hunting talisman and called me the Woman Who Hunts.”
Ayla touched the leather bag she always wore around her neck, and thought of her first one, the simple drawstring pouch that Iza had made for her. As her mother, Iza had put the piece of red ochre inside it when Ayla was accepted by the Clan. That amulet was nothing like the finely decorated one she wore now, which had been given to her at her Mamutoi adoption ceremony, but it still held her special tokens, including that original piece of red ochre. All the signs her totem had given to her were in it, as well as the red-stained oval from the tip of a mammoth tusk that was her hunting talisman, and the black stone, the small chunk of black manganese dioxide that held the spirit pieces of the Clan, which had been given to her when she became the medicine woman of Brun’s clan.
“Jondalar, I think it would help if you would talk to him. He’s unsure. His ways are very traditional, and too many unusual things have been going on. If he had a man to talk to, even one of the Others, rather than a woman, it might ease his mind. Do you remember the sign for a man to greet a man?”
Jondalar made a motion, and Ayla nodded. She knew it lacked finesse, but the meaning was clear. “Don’t attempt to greet the woman yet. It would be in bad taste, and he might consider it an insult. It is not customary or appropriate for men to talk to women without a good reason, especially strangers, and you will need his permission even then. With kin, there are fewer formalities, and a close friend could even relieve his needs—share Pleasures—with her, though it’s considered polite to ask his permission first.”
“Ask his permission, but not hers? Why do the women allow themselves to be treated as though they are less important than men?” Jondalar asked.
“They don’t think of it that way. They know, within themselves, that women and men are just as important, but men and women of the Clan are very different from each other,” Ayla tried to explain.
“Of course they are different. All men and women are different … I’m glad to say.”
“I don’t just mean different in the way you can see. You can do anything a woman can do, Jondalar, except have a baby, and although you are stronger, I can do almost everything you can do. But men of the Clan cannot do many things that women do, just as women cannot do the things that men do. They don’t have the memories for it. When I taught myself to hunt, many people were more surprised that I had the ability to learn, or even the desire, than that I had gone against the way of the Clan. It wouldn’t have astounded them anymore if you had given birth to a baby. I think the women were more surprised than the men. The idea would never occur to a Clan woman.”
“I thought you said the people of the Clan and the Others are very much alike,” Jondalar said.
“They are. But in some ways, they are more different than you can imagine. Even I can’t imagine it, and I was one of them, for a while,” Ayla said. “Are you ready to talk to him now?”
“I think so,” he said.
The tall, blond man walked toward the powerful, stocky man who was still sitting on the ground, with his thigh bent at an unnatural angle. Ayla followed. Jondalar lowered himself to sit in front of the man, glancing at Ayla, who nodded approval.
He had never been so close to an adult flathead male before, and his first thought was a memory of Rydag. Looking at this man, it was even more obvious that the boy had not been full Clan. As Jondalar recalled the strange, bright, sickly child, he realized that Rydag’s features had been greatly modified in comparison—softened was the word that came to him. This man’s face was large, both long and wide, and jutted out somewhat, led by a sizable, protruding, sharp nose. His fine-haired beard, which showed signs of having been recently trimmed to a uniform length, did not entirely succeed in hiding a rath
er receding jaw, with no chin.
His facial hair blended into a mass of thick, softly curled, light brown hair covering a huge, long head, that was full and rounded at the back. But the man’s heavy brow ridges took up most of his forehead, which sloped back into a hairline that started low. Jondalar had to restrain an urge to reach up and touch his own sharply rising high forehead and domed head. He could understand why they were called flatheads. It was as if someone had taken a head that was shaped like his, but somewhat larger, and made of material as malleable as wet clay, then reshaped it by pushing down and flattening his forehead, forcing the bulk of the size toward the back.
The man’s heavy brows were accentuated by bushy eyebrows, and his gold-flecked, almost hazel eyes showed curiosity, intelligence, and an undercurrent of pain. Jondalar could understand why Ayla wanted to help him.
Jondalar felt clumsy making the gesture for greeting; but he was heartened by the look of surprise on the face of the man of the Clan, who returned the gesture. Jondalar wasn’t sure what to do next. He thought about what he would do if he were meeting any stranger from another Cave or Camp, and he tried to remember the signs he had learned to make with Rydag.
He gestured, “This man is called …” then spoke his name and primary affiliation, “Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”
It was too melodic, too full of syllables, too much for the man of the Clan to hear all at once. He shook his head, as if trying to unplug his ear, inclined his head, as though it would help him to listen better, then tapped Jondalar’s chest.
It wasn’t hard to understand what he meant, Jondalar thought. He made the signs again for “This man is called …” then spoke his name, but only his given name, and more slowly, “Jondalar.”
The man closed his eyes, concentrating, then opened them and, taking a breath, spoke out loud, “Dyondar.”
Jondalar smiled, and nodded yes. There was a deep-voiced, not fully articulated quality to the word, and a sense of swallowing the vowels, but it was close enough. And strangely familiar. Then it came to him! Of course! Ayla! Her words still had that same quality, though not nearly as strong. That was her unusual accent. No wonder no one could identify it. She had a Clan accent, and no one knew they could talk!
Ayla was surprised at how well the man had said Jondalar’s name. She doubted if she had said it that well the first time she tried, and she wondered if this man had had contact with Others before. If he had been chosen to represent his people, or make some form of contact with the ones known as the Others, it would be an indication of high status. All the more reason, she understood, for him to be wary of kinship bonds with Others, especially Others of unknown status. He would not want to devalue his own status, but an obligation was an obligation, and whether he or his mate was ready to admit it, they still needed help. Somehow she had to convince him that they were Others who understood the significance and were worthy of the association.
The man facing Jondalar slapped his chest once, then leaned forward slightly. “Guban,” he said.
Jondalar had as much trouble repeating his name as Guban had had with “Jondalar,” and Guban was as generous in accepting the tall man’s mispronunciation as Jondalar had been of his.
Ayla felt relieved. An exchange of names wasn’t much, but it was a start. She glanced at the woman, still startled to see hair coloring lighter than her own on a woman of the Clan. Her head was covered with a fluff of soft curls, so light that it was almost white, but she was young and very attractive. Probably a second woman at his hearth. Guban was a man in his prime, and this woman was probably from a different clan, and quite a prize.
The woman looked at Ayla, then away quickly. Ayla wondered. She had seen worry and fear in the woman’s eyes and looked more closely, but with as much subtlety as the young Clan woman had used. Was there a thickening at the waist? Did her wrap fit a little tight across her breasts? She’s pregnant! No wonder she’s worried. A man with a badly healed broken leg would no longer be in his prime. And while this man might have high status, he no doubt had heavy responsibilities as well. Somehow, Ayla thought, she had to convince Guban to let her help him.
The two men had been sitting watching each other. Jondalar was not sure what to do next, and Guban was waiting to see what he would do. Finally, in desperation, he turned to her.
“This woman is Ayla,” he said, using his simple signs and then speaking her name.
At first Ayla thought he might have committed a social blunder, but seeing Guban’s reaction, decided perhaps not. Introducing her so quickly was an indication of the high esteem in which she was held, appropriate for a medicine woman. Then, as he continued, she wondered if he had seen into her thoughts.
“Ayla is healer. Very good healer. Good medicine. Want help Guban.”
To the man of the Clan, Jondalar’s signs were hardly more than baby talk. There were no nuances to his meaning, no suggestive shadings, no degrees of complexity, but his sincerity was clear. It was a surprise in itself to discover a man of the Others who could speak properly at all. Most of them chattered, or muttered, or growled like animals. They were like children in their excessive use of sound, but then, the Others weren’t considered very bright.
The woman, on the other hand, had a surprising depth of understanding with a fine grasp of nuance; and a clear and expressive ability to communicate. With inconspicuous finesse, she had translated some of Dyondar’s subtler meanings, easing their communication without embarrassment to anyone. As difficult as it was to believe that she had been raised by a clan and had traveled such a great distance, she was so adept at speaking that one could almost believe she was Clan.
Guban had never heard of the clan of whom the woman spoke, and he knew many, but the common language she had used was quite unfamiliar. Even the language of the clan of his yellow-hair was not as strange, yet this woman of the Others knew the ancient sacred signs and could use them with great skill and precision. Rare for a woman. There was a suggestion that she might be withholding something, though he couldn’t be certain. She was, after all, a woman of the Others, and he wouldn’t ask in any case. Women, especially medicine women, liked to keep a few things to themselves.
The pain of his broken leg throbbed and threatened to escape his control, and he had to focus on holding it in for a time.
But how could she be a medicine woman? She wasn’t Clan. She had no memories for it. Dyondar claimed she was a healer, and he spoke of her skill with great conviction … and his leg was broken—Guban flinched inwardly, then gritted his teeth. Perhaps she was a healer; the Others had to have them, too, but that didn’t make her a medicine woman of the Clan. His obligation was already so great. A kinship debt to this man would be bad enough, but to a woman, and a woman who used a weapon?
Yet where would he and his yellow-hair be without their help? His yellow-hair … and expecting a young one already. The thought of her made him feel soft inside. He had felt anger beyond anything he had ever known when those men went after her, hurting her, trying to take her. That was why he had jumped down from the top of the rock. It had taken him a long time to climb to the top, and he couldn’t wait that long to get back down.
He had seen deer tracks and had climbed up to look around, to see what he might hunt, while she collected inner bark and set taps for the juice that would soon be rising. She had said it would warm soon, though some of the others hadn’t believed her. She was still a stranger, but she said she had the memories for it and knew. He wanted to let her prove it to the others, so he had agreed to take her out, though he knew the dangers … from those men.
But it was cold, and he thought they’d avoid them if they stayed close to the icetop. The top of the rock seemed like a good place to scout the area. The agonizing pain when he landed hard and felt his leg snap made him dizzy, but he could not succumb. The men were on top of him, and he had to fight them, pain or no. He felt warmed remembering how she had rushed to him. He had been surprised to see her hitting at those men. He had ne
ver known a woman to do that, and he would never tell anyone, but it had pleased him that she had tried so hard to help him.
He shifted his weight, controlling the sharp stab of pain. But it wasn’t so much the pain. He had learned long ago to resist pain. Other fears were harder to control. What would happen if he could never walk again? A broken leg or arm could take a long time to heal, and if the bones mended wrong, twisted, or misshapen, or too short … what if he couldn’t hunt?
If he couldn’t hunt, he would lose status. He would no longer be leader. He had promised the leader of her clan to take care of her. She had been a favorite, but his status was great, and she wanted to go with him. She even told him, in the privacy of their own furs, that she had wished for him.
His first woman had not been too happy when he came home with a young and beautiful second woman, but she was a good Clan woman. She had taken good care of his hearth, and she would keep the status of First Woman. He promised to take care of her and her two daughters. He hadn’t minded that. Though he had always wished she would have a son, the daughters of his mate were a delight to have around the hearth, though they would soon be grown and gone.
But if he couldn’t hunt, he wouldn’t be able to take care of anyone. Like an old man, the clan would have to take care of him instead. And his beautiful yellow-hair, who might give birth to a son, how could he take care of her? She would have no trouble finding a man willing to take her, but he would lose her.
He could not even get back to the clan if he couldn’t walk. She would have to go for help, and they would have to come and get him. If he couldn’t make it back on his own, he would be less in the eyes of his clan, but it would be so much worse if the broken leg slowed him down and he lost his skill at hunting, or could never hunt again.