The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  “Shevonar?” she said. His eyes seemed aware, but puzzled. Perhaps he didn’t recognize her, she thought. “My name is Ayla. Your mate,” she hesitated, then remembered her name, “Relona is on her way here.” He took a breath and winced with pain. It seemed to surprise him. “You were hurt, Shevonar, by a bison. Zelandoni is on her way, too. I am trying to help until she gets here. I put a poultice on your chest to draw out some of the pain.”

  He nodded, but even that was an effort.

  “Do you want to see your brother? He’s been waiting to see you.”

  He nodded again, and Ayla got up and went to the men waiting nearby. “He’s awake. He’d like to see you,” she said to Ranokol.

  The young man quickly got up and went to his brother’s bed. Ayla followed, along with Joharran and Manvelar.

  “How are you feeling?” Ranokol said.

  Shevonar tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain as an unexpected cough brought up a drool of red out of the corner of his mouth. A look of panic filled his brother’s eyes, then he noticed the plaster on his brother’s chest.

  “What is this?” Ranokol said, his voice taut, almost a squeal.

  “It is a poultice for his pain.” Ayla’s voice was normally rather low-pitched, and she said the words slowly and calmly. She understood the panic and fear of the man’s brother.

  “Who told you to do anything to him? It’s probably making him worse. Get this off him!” he screamed.

  “No, Ranokol,” Shevonar said. The voice of the injured man could hardly be heard. “Not her fault. Helps.” He tried to sit up, then collapsed, unconscious.

  “Shevonar. Wake up, Shevonar! He’s dead! Oh Great Mother, he’s dead!” Ranokol cried, slumping down on the bed beside his brother.

  Ayla checked Shevonar’s pulse, while Joharran pulled Ranokol away. “No. He’s not dead, yet,” she said. “But he doesn’t have long. I hope his mate arrives soon.”

  “He’s not dead, Ranokol, but he could have been,” Joharran said angrily. “This woman may not be zelandoni, but she knows how to help. You’re the one who is making him worse. Who knows if he’ll wake up again to say his last words to Relona.”

  “No one can make him worse, Joharran. There is no hope for him. He may go anytime. Don’t blame a man grieving for his brother,” Ayla said, then moved to get up. “Let me make some tea, to settle everyone.”

  “You don’t have to, Ayla. I will. Just tell me what to make.”

  Ayla looked up and saw Thefona, and smiled. “If you just get some water boiling, I’ll get something for all of us,” she said. Then she turned back to check on Shevonar. He struggled with every difficult breath he took. She wanted to make him more comfortable, but when she tried to move him, he moaned in pain. She shook her head, surprised that he was still alive, then reached for her medicine bag to see what she had to make tea. Perhaps chamomile, she thought, with dried linden flowers or licorice root to sweeten it.

  The long afternoon wore on. People came and went, but Ayla didn’t notice them. Shevonar regained consciousness and asked for his mate, then slipped back into a restless sleep several times. His stomach was distended and hard, and the skin was almost black. She felt sure he was trying to hold on just to see her again.

  Somewhat later, Ayla picked up her waterbag to get a drink, found it empty, then put it down and forgot about her thirst. Portula had come into the small shelter to see how things were. She still felt self-conscious about her part in Marona’s trick and tried to stay out of the way, but she saw Ayla pick up the waterbag, shake it, and find it empty. Portula hurried to the pool, filled her own waterbag, and returned with the cold water.

  “Would you like a drink, Ayla?” she asked, holding out her dripping waterbag.

  Ayla looked up and was surprised to see the woman. “Thank you,” she said, holding out her drinking cup. “I was a little thirsty.”

  Portula stood there for a moment after Ayla was through, looking uncomfortable. “I want to apologize to you,” she finally said. “I’m sorry I let Marona talk me into playing that joke on you. It was not a very nice thing to do. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There really isn’t anything to say, is there, Portula?” Ayla said. “And I did get a warm and comfortable hunting outfit. Though I doubt that was what Marona intended, I will get use out of it, so let’s just forget about it.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Portula said.

  “There isn’t anything anyone can to do help. I’m surprised he is still with us. He asks for his mate when he wakes up. Joharran told him she is on her way,” Ayla said. “I think he’s holding on for her. I only wish I could do more to make it easier for him, but most medicines that alleviate pain have to be swallowed. I’ve given him a skin soaked with water to wet his mouth, but with his injury, I’m afraid if he drank anything, it would make it worse.”

  Joharran was out in front of the shelter looking south, the way Jondalar had gone, anxiously waiting for his return with Relona. The sun was falling low in the west, and darkness would follow soon. He had sent people to collect more wood so they could build up a large bonfire to help guide them; they were even taking some from the surround. The last time Shevonar woke, his eyes were glazed, and the leader knew death was near.

  The young man had put up such a brave struggle to cling to a last shred of life, Joharran hoped his mate would arrive before he lost the battle. Finally, in the distance he saw movement, something approaching. He hurried in that direction and was relieved to see a horse. When they were closer, he went to Relona and guided the distraught woman to the stone shelter where her mate lay dying.

  As she drew near, Ayla gently touched the man’s arm. “Shevonar. Shevonar! Relona’s here.” She moved his arm again. He opened his eyes and looked at Ayla. “She’s here. Relona’s here,” she said. Shevonar closed his eyes again and shook his head slightly, trying to make himself wake up.

  “Shevonar, it’s me. I came as fast as I could. Talk to me. Please talk to me.” Relona’s voice cracked in a sob.

  The injured man opened his eyes and fought to focus on the face bending near. “Relona,” he said. It was barely audible. The start of a smile was erased by an expression of pain. He looked again at the woman and watched her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, then closed his eyes and struggled to breathe.

  Relona’s eyes were pleading when she looked up at Ayla, who looked down, then back up, and shook her head. She glanced around in panic, desperately searching out someone else who would give her another answer, but no one would return her gaze. She looked back at the man and watched him strain to take a breath, then saw blood spill from the corner of his mouth.

  “Shevonar!” she cried, and reached for his hand.

  “Relona … wanted to see you once more,” he gasped, opening his eyes. “Say good-bye before I walk … the spirit world. If Doni allows … will see you there.” He closed his eyes and they heard a feeble rattle as he tried to draw in a breath. Then, a low moan grew louder, and though Ayla was sure he was trying to control it, the sound increased. He stopped and tried to take a breath. Then, Ayla thought she heard a muted popping sound from inside him as he suddenly cried out in an agonizing scream. When the sound died away, he breathed no more.

  “No, no. Shevonar, Shevonaaar,” Relona cried. She laid her head on his chest and heaved great sobs of sorrow and grief. Ranokol was standing beside her with tears running down his cheeks, looking bewildered, dazed, at a loss. He didn’t know what to do.

  Suddenly they were startled by a loud and eerie howl at close quarters that sent shivers down their backs. As one, they looked at Wolf. He was standing on all four legs with his head thrown back, wailing a spine-tingling wolf song.

  “What’s he doing?” Ranokol said, quite upset.

  “He is grieving for your brother,” said the familiar voice of Zelandoni. “As we all do.”

  Everyone was relieved to see her. She had arrived with Relona and several
others, but had stayed back to observe when Shevonar’s mate rushed ahead. Relona’s sobs turned to a wailing moan, a keening of her grief. Zelandoni joined her in her anguished lament, then several others. Wolf howled along with them. Finally, Ranokol broke down sobbing and threw himself across the man on the bed. An instant later he and Relona were clinging together, rocking and keening their sorrow.

  Ayla thought it was good for both of them. To alleviate his pain and anger, she knew Ranokol needed to let his grief out, and Relona had helped him. When Wolf howled again, she joined him in a howl so realistic, many thought at first it was another wolf. Then, to the surprise of those who had kept a vigil for the man in the shelter, from a distance they heard another wolf howl, joining in the keening wolf song of grief.

  After a while, the donier helped Relona up and led her to a fur that had been spread on the ground near the fire. Joharran helped the man’s brother to a place on the other side of the hearth. The woman sat there rocking back and forth, making a low moaning sound, indifferent to everything around her. Ranokol just sat staring blankly at the fire.

  The Zelandoni of the Third spoke quietly with the huge Zelandoni from the Ninth Cave, and shortly after returned with a steaming cup of liquid in each hand. The donier of the Ninth Cave took one cup from the Third and urged it on Relona, who drank it without objection, as though she didn’t know, or care, what she did. The Third’s other cup was brought to Ranokol, who ignored the proffered drink, but after some urging he finally drank it. Soon both of them were lying on the furs near the fire, asleep.

  “I’m glad to see her quieted,” Joharran said, “and him, too.”

  “They needed to grieve,” Ayla said.

  “Yes, they did, but now they need to rest,” Zelandoni said. “And so do you, Ayla.”

  “Have something to eat first,” Proleva said. Joharran’s mate had come with Relona and Zelandoni and a few others from the Ninth Cave. “We roasted some bison meat, and the Third Cave brought other food.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Ayla said.

  “But you must be tired,” Joharran said. “You hardly left his side for a moment.”

  “I wish I could have done more for him. I couldn’t think of anything to help him,” Ayla said, shaking her head and looking dejected.

  “But you did,” said the older man who was the Zelandoni of the Third. “You eased his pain. No one could have done more, and he wouldn’t have held on to life without your help. I would not have used a poultice in that way. To ease aches or bruises, yes, but for internal injuries? I don’t think I would have thought of it. Yet it did seem to help.”

  “Yes. It was a perceptive way to treat him,” the Ninth’s Zelandoni said. “Have you done that before?”

  “No. And I wasn’t sure it would help, but I had to try something,” Ayla said.

  “You did well,” the donier said. “But now you should have something to eat, and rest.”

  “No, nothing to eat, but I think I will lie down for a while,” Ayla said. “Where’s Jondalar?”

  “He went out with Rushemar and Solaban, and a couple of others to get more wood. Some went along just to hold torches, but Jondalar wanted to be sure there would be enough to last the night, and this valley doesn’t have many trees. They should be back soon. Jondalar put your sleeping furs over there,” Joharran said, showing her the place.

  Ayla lay down, thinking to rest a while until Jondalar came back. She was asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes. When the fuel collectors returned with the wood, nearly everyone was asleep. They put it in a pile near the fireplace, then went to the sleeping places they had chosen. Jondalar noticed the wooden bowl she usually took with her and used to heat small amounts of water with hot stones for medicinal teas. She had also constructed a makeshift framework of antlers, shed the previous season, to support a waterbag directly over a flame. Although the deer bladder held water, it seeped a little, which prevented it from catching on fire when it was used for heating water or cooking.

  Joharran stopped his brother to talk for a few moments. “Jondalar, I want to learn more about those spear-throwers. I saw that bison fall from your spear, and you were farther away than most. If we’d all had that weapon, we wouldn’t have had to get so close, and Shevonar might not have been trampled.”

  “You know I’ll show anyone who wants to learn, but it does take practice,” Jondalar said.

  “How long did it take you? I don’t mean to be as good as you are now, but to gain enough skill to really hunt with it?” Joharran asked.

  “We’ve been using the spear-throwers for a few years now, but by the end of the first summer, we were hunting with them,” Jondalar said. “It wasn’t until the Journey back that we got good at hunting from the backs of the horses, though. Wolf can be a help, too.”

  “It’s still hard to get used to the idea of using animals for anything besides meat or fur,” Joharran said. “I wouldn’t have believed you could if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. But it’s that spear-thrower I want to know more about. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The brothers bade a good night to each other, then Jondalar went to where Ayla was sleeping and joined her. Wolf looked up. He watched her breathing quietly in the glow from the fire, then looked back at the wolf. I’m glad he’s always there watching out for her, he thought, and stroked his head, then he slipped in beside her. He was sorry Shevonar had died, not only because he was a member of the Ninth Cave, but because he knew how hard it was on Ayla when someone died and there was nothing she could do. She was a healer, but there were some wounds no one could heal.

  Zelandoni had been busy all morning, preparing the body of Shevonar to be carried back to the Ninth Cave. Being near someone whose spirit had left the body was very disturbing for most people, and his burial would involve more than the usual ritual. It was considered very bad luck if someone died while hunting. If they were alone, the bad luck was obvious, the misfortune had been accomplished, but a Zelandoni usually performed a cleansing ritual to ward off any possible future effects. If two or three hunters went out and one of them died, it was still considered a personal matter, and a ceremony with the survivors and family members was adequate. But when someone died on a hunt that involved not just one Cave but the whole community, that was serious. Something on a community level had to be done.

  The One Who Was First was thinking about what might be needed, perhaps a prohibition on the hunting of bison for the rest of the season to assuage the ill fortune might be required. Ayla saw her relaxing with a cup of tea near the fire, sitting on a stack of several thickly stuffed pads that had been brought for her on Whinney’s pole drag. She seldom sat on low cushions, finding it more and more difficult and cumbersome to get up as she grew more corpulent with each year.

  Ayla approached the donier. “Zelandoni, can I talk to you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “If you’re too busy, it can wait. I just wanted to ask you something,” Ayla said.

  “I can spare a little time now,” Zelandoni said. “Get a cup for tea and join me.” She motioned to Ayla to sit on a mat on the ground.

  “I just wanted to ask you if you know of anything more that I could have done for Shevonar. Is there any way to heal internal wounds? When I lived with the Clan, there was a man who had been accidentally stabbed with a knife. A piece broke off inside and Iza cut in and removed it, but I don’t think there was a way to cut in and fix Shevonar’s wounds,” Ayla said.

  It was obvious how much it bothered the foreign woman that she had been able to do so little for the man, and Zelandoni was moved by her concern. It was the sort of thing a good acolyte might feel.

  “There is not much that can be done to help anyone who has been stepped on by a full-grown bison, Ayla,” Zelandoni said. “Some lumps and swellings can be lanced to drain, or small objects cut out, slivers or that broken piece of the knife that your Clan woman removed, but that was a brave thing for her to do. It is dangerous to cut into the body. You are
creating an injury that often is bigger than the one you are trying to fix. I have cut in a few times, but only when I was sure it would help and there was no other way.”

  “That’s how I feel,” Ayla said.

  “It’s also necessary to know something about what the inside of the body is like. There are many similarities between the inside of a human body and the inside of an animal’s body, and I have often butchered an animal very carefully to see what it looks like and how they are connected. It’s easy to see the tubes that carry blood from the heart, and the sinew that moves the muscles. Those things are very similar in all animals, but some things are different, an aurochs’s stomach is different from a horse’s, for example, and many things are arranged differently. It can be useful and quite interesting.”

  “I have found that to be true,” Ayla said. “I’ve hunted and butchered many animals, and it does help to understand about people. I am sure Shevonar’s ribs were broken, and splinters had penetrated his … breathing sacs.”

  “Lungs.”

  “His lungs, and I think his … other organs. In Mamutoi, I would say ‘liver’ and ‘spleen.’ I don’t know the words in Zelandonii. They bleed heavily when damaged. Do you know which ones I mean?” Ayla said.

  “Yes, I do,” the First said.

  “The blood had no place to go. I think that’s why he turned black and got so hard. It filled him up inside until something burst,” the young woman said.

  “I examined him, and I agree with your assessment. The blood filled his stomach and some of his intestines. I believe part of the intestines burst,” the donier said.

  “The intestines are the long tubes that lead to the outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jondalar taught me that word. They were damaged on Shevonar, too, I think, but it was the blood filling him up inside that made him die.”