by Jean M. Auel
Even during the Ice Age, when the leading edge of the nearest mass of ice was only a few hundred miles to the north, clear days could get quite hot at middle latitudes in the warm season. As the sun passed overhead, seeming to circle the great mother planet, it rode high in the southwest sky. The great protective overhanging cliff of the Ninth Cave, and others that faced south or southwest, cast a shadow beneath it in the heat of midday, offering a respite of enticing cool shade.
And when the weather began to chill, heralding the severe season of intense cold in periglacial territories, they welcomed their more permanent and protected homes. During the glacial winters, though sharp winds and temperatures well below freezing prevailed, the bitter cold days were often dry and clear. The shining orb hung low in the sky then, and the long rays of the afternoon sun could penetrate deep into a south-facing shelter to lay a kiss of solar warmth on the receptive stone. The great limestone abri cherished its precious gift, holding it until evening, when the nip of frost bit deeper, then it gave back its warmth to the protected space.
Proper clothing and fire were essential to survival on the northern continents when glaciers covered nearly a quarter of the earth’s surface, but in the land of the Zelandonii passive solar heat made a significant contribution toward warming their living space. The huge cliffs with their protective shelters were a significant reason the region was among the most heavily populated in all that cold ancient world.
Ayla smiled at the woman responsible for organizing the feast. “It looks so beautiful, Proleva. If the wonderful smells hadn’t made me so hungry, I would just like to look at it.”
Proleva smiled back, pleased.
“That is her specialty,” Marthona said. Ayla turned, somewhat surprised to see Jondalar’s mother; she had looked for her before she stepped down from the Speaking Stone but couldn’t find her. “No one can put together a feast or a gathering like Proleva. She’s a good cook, too, but it’s her skill at organizing the contributions of food and help from other people that makes her such an asset to Joharran and the Ninth Cave.”
“I learned from you, Marthona,” Proleva said, obviously delighted at the high praise from the mother of her mate.
“You have more than outdone me. I was never as good at making feasts as you have become,” Marthona said.
Ayla noticed the very specific reference to making feasts and recalled that Marthona’s “specialty” had not been organizing feasts and gatherings. Her organizing skills had been utilized as the leader of the Ninth Cave before Joharran.
“I hope you let me help you next time, Proleva,” Ayla said. “I would like to learn from you.”
“I’d be happy to have your help next time, but since this feast is for you, and people are waiting for you to start, can I serve you some of this young reindeer roast?”
“What about your wolf-animal?” Marthona asked. “Would he like some meat?”
“He would, but he doesn’t need tender young meat. He would probably be happy with a bone, if there is one with a little meat left on it that isn’t needed for soup,” Ayla said.
“There are several by the cooking fires over there,” Proleva said, “but do take a slice of this reindeer and some daylily buds for yourself first.”
Ayla held out her eating bowl to accept the piece of meat and ladle of hot green vegetables, then Proleva called another woman to come and serve the food and walked with Ayla toward the cooking hearths, staying on her left side, away from Wolf. She led them to the bones piled to one side of a large hearth and helped Ayla pick out a broken long bone with a shiny knob at one end. The marrow had been extracted, but pieces of brownish drying raw meat were still clinging to it.
“This will do fine,” Ayla said, while the wolf eyed her with tongue-lolling anticipation. “Would you like to give it to him, Proleva?”
Proleva frowned nervously. She didn’t want to be impolite to Ayla, especially after Marona’s trick, but she wasn’t eager to give a bone to a wolf.
“I would,” Marthona said, knowing it would make everyone less fearful to see her do it. “What should I do?”
“You can hold it out to him, or you can toss it to him,” Ayla said. She noticed that several people, including Jondalar, had joined them. He had an amused smile on his face.
Marthona took the bone and held it out toward the animal as he approached, then with a change of mind, she tossed it in the general direction of the wolf. He jumped up and grabbed it in the air with his teeth, a trick that drew appreciative comments, then he looked at Ayla expectantly.
“Take it over there, Wolf,” she said, signaling him as well, indicating the big charred stump at the edge of the terrace. The wolf carried the bone like a prized possession, settled himself near the stump, and began to gnaw on it.
When they went back to the serving tables, everyone wanted to give Ayla and Jondalar samples of special treats, which she noticed had a different variety of tastes from the ones she had known in her childhood. One thing she had learned on her travels, however, was that whatever foods the people of a region liked best, while they might be unusual, they generally tasted good.
A man, somewhat older than Jondalar, approached the group that surrounded Ayla. Though Ayla thought he appeared rather slovenly—his unwashed blond hair was dark with grease, and his clothing was grimy and needed repair—many people smiled at him, particularly the young men. He carried a container, similar to a waterbag, over his shoulder. It had been made from the nearly waterproof stomach of an animal and was full of liquid, which distended its shape.
By the size of it, Ayla guessed the container had probably come from the stomach of a horse; it did not appear to have the distinctive contours of a waterbag made from a ruminant with a multiple-chambered stomach. And by the smell, she knew it did not contain water. Rather, the odor reminded her of Talut’s bouza, the fermented drink that the headman of the Lion Camp made out of birch sap and other ingredients—which he liked to keep secret but usually included grains of some kind.
A young man who had been hovering near Ayla looked up and smiled broadly. “Laramar!” he said. “Have you brought some of your barma?”
Jondalar was glad to see him distracted. He didn’t know him, but had learned the man’s name was Charezal. He was a new member of the Ninth Cave who had come from a rather distant group of Zelandonii, and quite young. He probably hadn’t even met his first donii-woman when I left, Jondalar thought, but he had been fluttering around Ayla like a gnat.
“Yes. I thought I would make a contribution to the Welcome Feast for this young woman,” Laramar said, smiling at Ayla.
His smile seemed insincere, which aroused her Clan sensitivity. She paid closer attention to the language his body spoke and quickly decided this was not a man to be trusted.
“A contribution?” one of the women asked with a hint of sarcasm. Ayla thought it was Salova, the mate of Rushemar, one of the two men whom she regarded as Joharran’s seconds in command, as Grod had been Brun’s in the Clan. Leaders needed someone they could rely on, she had decided.
“I thought it was the least I could do,” Laramar said. “It isn’t often that a Cave can welcome someone from so far away.”
As he lifted the heavy bag from his shoulder and turned to put it down on a nearby stone table, Ayla overheard the woman mutter under her breath, “And even less often that Laramar contributes anything. I wonder what he wants.”
It seemed obvious to Ayla that she was not alone in mistrusting the man. Others did not trust him, either. It made her curious about him. People with cups in hand were already gathering around him, but he made a point of singling out Ayla and Jondalar.
“I think the returned traveler and the woman he brought with him should get the first drinks,” Laramar said.
“They can hardly refuse such a great honor,” Salova murmured.
Ayla barely heard the scornful comment and wondered if anyone else did. But the woman was right. They could not refuse. Ayla looked at Jondalar, who poi
ntedly emptied the water from his cup and nodded toward the man. She emptied her cup as they walked up to Laramar.
“Thank you,” Jondalar said, smiling. Ayla thought his smile was as insincere as Laramar’s. “This is very thoughtful of you. Everyone knows your barma is the best, Laramar. Have you met Ayla yet?”
“Along with everyone else,” he said, “but I haven’t really been introduced.”
“Ayla, of the Mamutoi, this is Laramar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii. It is true. No one makes barma better than his,” Jondalar said.
Ayla thought it seemed a rather limited formal introduction, but the man smiled at the praise. She handed Jondalar her cup to free both of her hands and held them out to the man. “In the name of the Great Earth Mother I greet you, Laramar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii,” she said.
“And I welcome you,” he said, taking her hands, but holding them only briefly, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Rather than a formal one, let me offer you a better welcome.”
Laramar proceeded to open the container. First he unwrapped a waterproof piece of cleaned intestine from a pouring spout that had been made of a single vertebra from the backbone of an aurochs. Extraneous material around the tubular bone had been carved away and a groove cut around the outside. Then it had been inserted into a natural opening of the stomach and a strong cord tied around the skin that encircled the bone so that it was pulled into the groove, to hold it in place and make a watertight connection. Then he pulled out the stopper, a thin leather thong that had been knotted several times at one end until it was big enough to plug the central hole. It was much easier to control the flow of liquid from the flexible bag through the natural hole in the center of the solid section of spine.
Ayla had retrieved her cup from Jondalar and held it out. Laramar filled it somewhat more than half-full. Then he poured some for Jondalar. Ayla took a small sip. “This is good,” she said, smiling. “When I lived with the Mamutoi, the headman, Talut, used to make a drink similar to this out of birch sap and grains and other ingredients, but I must admit, this is better.”
Laramar looked around at the people nearby with a smirk of satisfaction.
“What is this made of?” Ayla asked, trying to get the taste.
“I don’t always make it the same way. It depends on what’s available. Sometimes I use birch sap and grains,” Laramar said, being evasive. “Can you guess what’s in it?”
She tasted again. It was harder to guess ingredients when they were fermented. “I think there are grains, perhaps birch sap or sap from some other tree, and maybe fruit, but something else, something sweet. I can’t tell the proportions, though, how much of each is used,” Ayla said.
“You have a good sense of taste,” he said, evidently impressed. “This batch does have fruit, apples that were left on a tree through a frost, which makes them a little more sweet, but the sweet you are tasting is honey.”
“Of course! Now that you mention it, I can taste honey,” Ayla said.
“I can’t always get honey, but when I can, it makes the barma better, and stronger,” Laramar said, this time with a smile that was genuine. There were not many with whom he could discuss the making of his brew.
Most people had a craft, something in which they developed the skill to excel. Laramar knew that he could make barma better than anyone. He considered it his craft, the one thing he could do well, but he felt that few gave him the credit he thought he deserved.
Many foods fermented naturally, some on the vine or tree on which they grew; even animals who ate them were sometimes affected. And many people made fermented beverages, at least occasionally, but they were inconsistent and their product often turned sour. Marthona was often cited for making an excellent wine, but it was considered by many a minor thing, and of course, it wasn’t her only skill.
Laramar could always be counted on to make a fermented brew that became alcoholic, not vinegary, and his was often very good. He knew that it wasn’t a minor thing, it took skill and knowledge to do it well, but most people cared only about his end product. It didn’t help that he was known to drink a lot of it himself and was often too “sick” in the mornings to go hunting or to participate in some cooperative, sometimes unpleasant, but usually necessary activity that needed to be done for the Cave.
Shortly after he poured the barma for the guests of honor, a woman appeared at Laramar’s side. A toddler was hanging on her leg that she seemed to be ignoring. She had a cup in her hand which she held toward Laramar. A flicker of displeasure danced across his features for a moment, but he held his expression carefully neutral as he poured her some barma.
“Aren’t you going to introduce her to your mate?” she said, obviously directing her question to Laramar, but looking at Ayla.
“Ayla, this is my mate, Tremeda, and the one hanging on her is her youngest boy,” Laramar said, complying with her request minimally, and somewhat reluctantly, Ayla thought.
“Tremeda, this is Ayla of the … Matumo.”
“In the name of the Mother, I greet you, Tremeda of …,” Ayla started, putting down her cup so she could use both hands in the formal greeting.
“I welcome you, Ayla,” Tremeda said, then took a drink, not bothering with trying to free her hands for greetings.
Two more children had crowded around her. The clothing on all the children was so ragged, stained, and dirty, it was hard to see the minor differences that Ayla had observed between young Zelandonii girls and boys, and Tremeda, herself, looked little better. Her hair was uncombed, her clothes stained and dirty. Ayla suspected that Tremeda indulged too heavily in her mate’s brew. The eldest of the children, a boy, Ayla thought, was looking at her with an unpleasant expression.
“Why does she talk so funny?” he said, looking up at his mother. “And why is she wearing boy’s underwear?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” Tremeda said, drinking the last of the liquid in her cup.
Ayla glanced at Laramar and noticed that he was fuming with anger. He looked ready to hit the youngster. Before he could, Ayla spoke to the boy. “The reason I have a different way of speaking is that I come from far away and grew up with people who don’t talk the same way as the Zelandonii. Jondalar taught me to speak your language after I was already grown. As for these clothes, they were given to me as a gift earlier today.”
The youngster seemed surprised that she had answered him, but he didn’t hesitate to ask another question. “Why would someone give you boys’ clothes?” the boy said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps they meant it as a joke, but I rather like them. They are very comfortable. Don’t you think so?”
“I guess so. I never had any as good as those,” the boy said.
“Then perhaps we can make some for you. I’d be willing if you will help me,” Ayla said.
His eyes lit up. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it. Will you tell me your name?”
“I’m Bologan,” he said.
Ayla held out both her hands. Bologan looked at her in surprise. He had not expected a full formal greeting and wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t think he had a formal designation. He had never heard his mother or the man of his hearth greet anyone using their names and ties. Ayla reached down and took both his grimy hands in hers.
“I am Ayla of the Mamutoi, Member of the Lion Camp,” she began, and continued with her full formal designation. When he didn’t respond with his, she did it for him. “In the name of Mut, the Great Earth Mother, also known as Doni, I greet you, Bologan of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii; Son of Tremeda, Blessed of Doni, mated to Laramar, Maker of the Most Excellent Barma.”
The way she said it made it sound as if he really did have names and ties to be proud of, like everyone else. He looked up at his mother and her mate. Laramar was not angry anymore. They were smiling and seemed rather pleased at the way she had named them.
Ayla noticed Marthona and Salova had joined them. “I would li
ke some of that Most Excellent Barma,” Salova said. Laramar seemed more than pleased to oblige.
“And me too,” Charezal said, getting his request in first as other people started crowding around Laramar, holding out their cups.
Ayla noticed that Tremeda got another cupful, too, before she moved off, followed by the children. Bologan looked at her as they were moving away. She smiled at him and was pleased to see him smile back.
“I think you’ve made a friend of that young man,” Marthona said.
“A rather rowdy young man,” Salova added. “Are you really going to make him some winter underwear?”
“Why not? I would like to learn how this is made,” Ayla said, indicating the clothing she had on. “I may have a son someday. And I might like to make another outfit for myself.”
“Make one for yourself! You mean you are going to wear that?” Salova said.
“With a few variations, like a slightly better-fitting top. Have you ever tried one on? It is very comfortable. And besides, it was given to me as a gift of welcome. I’m going to show how much I appreciate it,” Ayla said, a touch of her anger and pride showing.
Salova’s eyes opened wide as she looked at the stranger Jondalar had brought home, suddenly conscious of her unusual enunciation again. This woman is not someone to anger, she thought. Marona may have tried to embarrass Ayla, but Ayla has turned it back on her. Marona will be the one who ends up being humiliated. She’ll cringe every time she sees her wearing that outfit. I don’t think I would want Ayla mad at me!
“I’m sure Bologan could use something warm to wear this winter,” Marthona said. She had not missed a bit of the subtle communication between the two younger women. It’s probably just as well for Ayla to begin establishing her place right away, she thought. People need to know she cannot be taken advantage of easily. After all, she will be mating a man who was born and raised among the people who are the responsible leaders of the Zelandonii.
“He could use something to wear anytime,” Salova said. “Has he ever had anything decent? The only reason those children have anything at all is that people take pity on them and give them their castoffs. As much as he drinks, have you noticed that Laramar always manages to have enough barma to trade for whatever he wants, especially to make more barma, but not enough to feed his mate and her brood? And he’s never around when something needs to be done, like spreading rock powder on the trenches, or even to go hunting.