by Jean M. Auel
“And Tremeda doesn’t help,” Salova continued. “They are too much alike. She’s always too ‘sick’ to help with food gathering or community projects, though it doesn’t seem to bother her to ask for a share of someone else’s efforts to feed her ‘poor, hungry children.’ And who can refuse? They are indeed poorly dressed, seldom clean, and often hungry.”
After the meal, the gathering became more boisterous, especially after Laramar’s barma appeared. As darkness came on, the revelers moved to an area closer to the middle of the space under the huge rock shelf that roofed the entire settlement, and a large fire was lit barely under the edge of the overhead shelter. Even during the hottest days of summer, nighttime brought a penetrating chill, a reminder of the great masses of glacial ice to the north.
The bonfire threw heat back under the abri, and as the rock warmed, it added to the comfort of the surroundings. So did the friendly, if constantly changing, crowd gathered around the recently arrived couple. Ayla met so many people that, in spite of her exceptional memorizing skill, she wasn’t sure she would remember them all.
Wolf suddenly appeared again about the same time as Proleva, carrying a sleepy Jaradal, joined the group. The boy perked up and wanted to get down, much to his mother’s obvious dismay.
“Wolf won’t hurt him,” Ayla said.
“He’s very good with children, Proleva,” Jondalar added. “He was raised with the children of the Lion Camp, and was especially protective of one boy who was weak and sickly.”
The nervous mother stooped to let the boy down while keeping an arm around him. Ayla joined them, putting her arm around the animal, primarily to reassure the woman.
“Would you like to touch Wolf, Jaradal?” Ayla asked. He nodded his head up and down solemnly. She guided his hand toward Wolf’s head.
“He’s tickly!” Jaradal said with a smile.
“Yes, his fur is tickly. It tickles him, too. He’s shedding; that means some of his hair is coming out,” Ayla said.
“Does it hurt?” Jaradal asked.
“No. It just tickles. That’s why he especially likes to be scratched now.”
“Why is his hair coming out?”
“Because it’s getting warmer. In winter, when it’s cold, he grows a lot of hair to keep warm, but it’s too hot in summer,” Ayla explained.
“Why doesn’t he put a coat on when it’s cold?” Jaradal pressed.
The answer came from another source. “It’s hard for wolves to make coats, so the Mother makes one for them every winter,” Zelandoni said. She had joined the group shortly after Proleva. “In summer, when it gets warm, the Mother takes their coats off. When Wolf sheds his fur, it’s Doni’s way of taking off his coat, Jaradal.”
Ayla was surprised at the gentleness in the woman’s voice as she talked to the small boy, and the look of tenderness in her eyes. It made her wonder if Zelandoni had ever wanted children. With her knowledge of medicine, Ayla was sure the donier would know how to dislodge a pregnancy, but it was more difficult to know how to start one or to prevent a miscarriage. I wonder how she thinks new life starts, Ayla thought, or if she knows how to prevent it.
When Proleva picked up the boy to take him to their dwelling, Wolf started to follow. Ayla called him back. “I think you should go to Marthona’s dwelling, Wolf,” she said, giving him a “go home” signal. His home was anyplace that Ayla had laid her furs.
As the chill darkness overwhelmed the region beyond the palliative of firelight, many people left the main celebration area. Some, especially families with young children, retired to personal dwellings. Others, mostly young couples but older people as well and occasionally more than two, were in the shadows around the edges of the fire, involved with each other in more private ways, sometimes talking, sometimes embracing. It was not uncommon to share partners at such events, and as long as all the parties were agreeable, no ill will resulted.
The occasion reminded Ayla of a celebration to Honor the Mother, and if it honored Her to share Her Gift of Pleasure, She seemed to be well honored that evening. The Zelandonii were not so different from the Mamutoi, Ayla thought, or the Sharamudoi, or the Losadunai, and even the language was the same as the Lanzadonii.
Several men tried to entice the beautiful stranger into sharing the Great Mother’s pleasurable Gift. Ayla enjoyed the attention, but she made it plain that she had no desire for anyone except Jondalar.
He had mixed feelings about all the interest she was getting. He was pleased that she was so well received by his people, and proud that so many men admired the woman he had brought home, but he wished that they would not be so openly eager to take her to their furs—especially that stranger called Charezal—and he was glad that she showed no inclination for anyone else.
Jealousy was not well tolerated by the Zelandonii. It could lead to discord and strife, even fighting, and as a community, they valued harmony and cooperation above all else. In a land that was little more than a frozen waste for a large part of the year, willing mutual assistance was essential for survival. Most of their customs and practices were aimed at maintaining goodwill and discouraging anything, such as jealousy, that might jeopardize their amicable relations.
Jondalar knew he would have trouble hiding his jealousy if Ayla chose someone else. He did not want to share her with anyone. Perhaps, after they had been mated for many years and the comfort of habit occasionally gave way to the excitement of someone new, it would be different, but not yet, and in his heart he doubted if he could ever willingly share her.
Some people had started singing and dancing, and Ayla was trying to move in their direction, but everyone around her crowded in close, wanting to talk. One man in particular, who had been hovering around the edge of the group most of the evening, now seemed determined to speak to her. Ayla thought she had noticed someone unusual earlier, but when she tried to focus on him, someone else would ask her a question or make a comment that distracted her.
She looked up as a man handed her another cup of the barma. Though the drink reminded her of Talut’s bouza, this was stronger. She was feeling a bit giddy and decided it was time to stop. She was familiar with the effects such fermented drinks could have on her, and she did not want to get too “friendly” the first time she met Jondalar’s people.
She smiled at the man who had given her the cup in anticipation of politely refusing him, but the shock of seeing him froze the smile on her face for a moment. It quickly became an expression of genuine warmth and friendliness.
“I am Brukeval,” he said. He seemed hesitant and shy. “I’m a cousin of Jondalar.” His voice was quite low-pitched, but rich and resonant, very pleasing.
“Greetings! I am called Ayla of the Mamutoi,” she said, intrigued by more than his voice or demeanor.
He did not quite resemble the rest of the Zelandonii she had met. Rather than the usual blue or gray eyes, his large eyes were quite dark. Ayla thought they might be brown, but it was hard to be sure in firelight. More startling than his eyes, however, was his general appearance. He had a look that was familiar to her. His features had the cast of the Clan!
He’s a mixture, both Clan and Others. I’m sure of it, she thought. She studied him, but only with glances. He seemed to bring out her Clan woman training and she found herself being careful not to stare too directly. She didn’t think he was an equal mixture of half Clan, half Others, like Echozar, to whom Joplaya was Promised … or her own son.
The look of the Others was stronger in this man; his forehead was essentially high and straight, sloping back only a little, and when he turned she could see that while his head was long, the back of it was round and lacked the protruding bony occipital bun. But his browridges, which overhung his large deep-set eyes, were his most distinctive feature, not quite as imposing as men of the Clan, but definitely prominent. His nose was quite big, too, and though more finely modeled than Clan men, it had the same general shape.
She thought he probably had a receding chin. His dark bro
wn beard made it hard to tell, but the beard itself made the man seem similar to the men she had known as a child. The first time Jondalar had shaved, which he usually did in summer, it had been a shock to her, and it had made him appear very young, preadolescent. She had never seen a grown man without a beard before that. This man was somewhat shorter than average, slightly shorter than her, though he was powerfully built, burly with heavy muscles and a deep barrel chest.
Brukeval had all the masculine qualities of the men she had grown up with, and she thought he was quite handsome in a comfortable way. She even felt a slight tingle of attraction. She was also feeling tipsy—definitely no more cups of barma for her.
Ayla’s warm smile communicated her feeling, but Brukeval thought there was an engaging shyness about her, too, in the way she glanced aside and looked down. He was not used to women reacting to him with such warmth, especially beautiful women who were with his tall, charismatic cousin.
“I thought you might want a cup of Laramar’s barma,” Brukeval said. “There have been so many people around you, all wanting to talk, but no one seemed to think you might be thirsty.”
“Thank you. I actually am thirsty, but I don’t dare have any more of that,” she said, indicating the cup. “I’ve already had so much, I’m dizzy.” Then she smiled, one of her full, glowing, irresistible smiles.
Brukeval was so entranced, he forgot to breathe for a moment. He’d been wanting to meet her all evening, but had been afraid to approach her. He had been casually spurned by beautiful women before. With her golden hair gleaming in the firelight, her firm and remarkably shapely body shown off becomingly by the soft clinging leather, and the slightly foreign features giving her an exotic appeal, he thought she was the most extraordinarily beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Can I get you something else to drink?” Brukeval finally asked, smiling with a boyish eagerness to please. He hadn’t expected her to be so open and friendly to him.
“Go away, Brukeval. I was here first,” said Charezal, not entirely in fun. He had seen the way she smiled at Brukeval, and he had been trying all evening to entice Ayla away, or at least extract a promise that she would meet him some other time.
Few men would have been so persistent in trying to interest a woman chosen by Jondalar, but Charezal had moved to the Ninth Cave only the year before from a distant Cave. He was several years younger than Jondalar, had not even reached manhood by the time the man and his brother left on their Journey, and was not aware of the tall man’s reputation as someone who had an incomparable way with women. He had learned only that day that the leader had a brother. He had, however, heard rumors and gossip about Brukeval.
“You don’t think she’s going to be interested in someone whose mother was half flathead, do you?” Charezal said.
There was a gasp from the crowd and a sudden silence. No one had openly made such a reference to Brukeval in years. His face distorted with a venomous look of pure hatred as he glared at the young man in a barely controlled rage. Ayla was stunned to see the transformation. She had seen that kind of rage from a man of the Clan once before, and it frightened her.
But this was not the first time someone had poked fun at Brukeval like that. He had felt especially sensitive to Ayla’s predicament when she was laughed at for wearing the clothes Marona and her friends had given to her. Brukeval had been the butt of cruel jokes, too. He had wanted to run to her, protect her, as Jondalar did, and when he saw the way she stood up to their laughter, tears had come to his eyes. As he’d watched her walk so proudly and face them all down, he had lost his heart to her.
Later, though he ached to talk to her, he suffered agonies of indecision and hesitated to introduce himself. Women didn’t always respond favorably to him, and he would rather have admired her from a distance than see her look at him with the disdain some beautiful women did. But after watching her for some time, he finally decided to take a chance. And then, she had been so nice to him! She had seemed to welcome his presence. Her smile had been so warm and receptive, it made her even more beautiful.
In the silence after Charezal’s remark, Brukeval watched Jondalar move up behind Ayla, hovering protectively. He envied Jondalar. He had always envied Jondalar, who was even taller than most. Though he had never taken part in the sport of name-calling, and had in fact defended him more than once, he felt that Jondalar pitied him, and that was worse. Now Jondalar had come home with this beautiful woman that everyone admired. Why were some people so favored?
But his glare at Charezal had upset Ayla more than he could know. She hadn’t seen an expression like that since she left Brun’s clan; it reminded her of Broud, the son of Brun’s mate, who had often looked at her like that. Though Brukeval was not angry at her, she shuddered at the memory and wanted to get away.
She turned to Jondalar. “Let’s go. I’m tired,” she said under her breath in Mamutoi, and realized that she really was—exhausted, in fact. They had just completed a long, hard Journey, and so much had happened, it was hard to believe they had arrived only that day. There had been the anxiety of meeting Jondalar’s family and the sadness of telling them about Thonolan’s death; the unpleasantness of Marona’s joke as well as the excitement of meeting all the people of this large Cave; and now Brukeval. It was too much.
Jondalar could see that the incident between Brukeval and Charezal had distressed her, and he had some idea why. “It has been a long day,” he said. “I think it’s time for us to go.”
Brukeval seemed upset that they were leaving so soon after he had finally gotten up courage to talk to her. He smiled hesitantly. “Do you have to go?” he asked.
“It’s late. Many people have already gone to bed, and I am tired,” she said, smiling back at him. Without that malevolent expression, she could smile at him, but it lacked the earlier warmth. They said good night to the people nearby, but when she looked back, she noticed Brukeval glaring again at Charezal.
As she and Jondalar walked back toward the dwellings and Marthona’s place, Ayla asked, “Did you see the way your cousin was looking at Charezal? It was filled with hate.”
“I can’t say I blame him for being upset at Charezal,” he said. Jondalar had not exactly warmed to the man, either. “You know it’s a terrible insult to call someone a flathead, and even worse to say someone’s mother is one. Brukeval has been teased before, especially when he was young—children can be cruel.”
Jondalar went on to explain that when Brukeval was a child, whenever someone had wanted to tease him, they called him “flathead.” Though he lacked that specific characteristic of the Clan that had given rise to the epithet—the sloped-back forehead—it was the one word that was all but guaranteed to make him react with fury. And to the young orphan who had hardly known her, it was worse to refer to his mother in a way that meant the most despicable kind of abomination imaginable, half animal, half human.
Because of his predictable emotional response, with the casual cruelty of children, those who were bigger or older often teased him by calling him “flathead” or “son of an abomination” when he was young. But as he grew older, what he lacked in stature, he made up for in strength. After a few battles with boys who, though taller than him, were no match for his phenomenal muscular power, especially coupled with untempered rage, they stopped the hated taunts, at least to his face.
“I don’t know why it should bother people so much, but it’s probably true,” Ayla said. “I think he is part Clan. He reminds me of Echozar, but Brukeval has less Clan. You can see it is not as strong—except for that look. That reminded me of the way Broud looked at me.”
“I’m not so sure he’s a mixture. Maybe some ancestor came from a distant place and it’s only chance that he bears some superficial resemblance to f … Clan people,” Jondalar said.
“He’s your cousin, what do you know about him?”
“I don’t really know much for sure, but I can tell you what I’ve heard,” Jondalar said. “Some of the older people sa
y that when Brukeval’s grandmother was barely a young woman, she somehow got separated from her people while traveling to a Summer Meeting that was quite far away. She was supposed to have her First Rites at that meeting. By the time she was found it was the end of summer. They say she was irrational, hardly even coherent. She claimed she had been attacked by animals. They say she was never quite right again, but she didn’t live long. Not long after she returned, it was discovered she had been blessed by the Mother, even though she had never had First Rites. She died shortly after giving birth to Brukeval’s mother, or perhaps as the result of it.”
“Where do they think she was?”
“No one knows.”
Ayla frowned in thought. “She must have found food and shelter while she was gone,” she said.
“I don’t think she was starving,” he said.
“The animals that attacked her, did she say what kind they were?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Did she have any scratch or bite marks or other injuries?” Ayla continued.
“I don’t know.”
Ayla stopped as they were approaching the area of the dwellings and looked at the tall man in the dim light of the crescent moon and the distant fire. “Don’t the Zelandonii call the Clan animals? Did his grandmother ever say anything about the ones you call flatheads?”
“They do say she hated flatheads, and would run away screaming at the sight of one,” Jondalar said.
“What about Brukeval’s mother? Did you know her? What did she look like?”
“I don’t recall much, I was pretty young,” Jondalar said. “She was short. I remember that she had big, beautiful eyes, dark like Brukeval’s, brownish, but not really dark brown, more hazel. People used to say her eyes were her best feature.”