by Jean M. Auel
A cloud cast a shadow over the sun. She looked up and noticed the placement of the sun in the sky, and realized that the time had passed quickly. Things had been so busy the past few days, she felt good having no demands on her or her time. But when it started to sprinkle, she decided to ride Whinney back to the Ninth Cave. Racer and Wolf followed. She was glad she had when the rain came down in earnest just as she arrived at the shelter. She led the horses up to the stone front porch and walked them past the living area and down toward the more unused area.
She passed by some men sitting around a fire, and though she didn’t recognize the game, from their actions, she guessed they were gambling. They stopped and watched her as she walked by. She thought they were very rude to stare at her the way they did, and she made a point of showing better manners by avoiding looking at them. But she did have the Clan woman’s skill of glancing unobtrusively yet taking in a great deal of information with quick glimpses. She noticed that they were making comments to each other, and she thought she smelled barma.
Farther on, she saw some people in various stages of curing hides, both bison and deer. They probably found the usual work area too crowded, too, she thought. She brought the horses almost to the end of the ledge, near the small stream that separated the Ninth Cave from Down River, and thought that it could be a good place to build a shelter for them before winter. She’d have to talk to Jondalar about it. Then she showed them the trail that led down to the bank of The River and left them to see what they would decide to do. Wolf decided to go with the horses when they started down the trail. Raining or not, they preferred grazing near The River to staying up on the barren ledge just to keep dry.
She thought about going on to see Jondalar, then changed her mind and went back to where they were working on hides. People were glad for an excuse to take a break, and for some of them to talk to the woman that a wolf followed and from whom horses didn’t run away. She noticed that Portula was there. The young woman smiled at Ayla, still trying to make friends. She seemed genuinely sorry for her part in Marona’s trick.
Ayla had been wanting to make some clothing for Jondalar, herself, and the expected baby, and remembered that she had killed a young giant deer buck. She wondered where it was, but while she was here she decided she could at least skin the hare that was hanging from her waist thong to make something for the baby.
“If there’s room, I’d like to skin this hare quickly,” Ayla said to the group in general.
“There’s plenty of room,” Portula said. “And I’d be glad to let you use some of my tools, if you need them.”
“I would, Portula, thank you for offering. I do have many tools, I live with Jondalar, after all,” Ayla said with a wry smile. Several people smiled back knowingly. “But I don’t have them with me.”
Ayla liked the feeling of having people around her all busily engaged in tasks at which they were skilled. What a difference from the lonely days in her cave in the valley. This was more like her childhood in Brun’s clan with everyone working together.
She quickly gutted and skinned the hare, then asked, “Do you mind if I leave these here for now? I need to go Down River. I’ll pick them up on my way back.”
“I’ll watch them,” Portula said. “If you want, I’ll take them back with me when I go, if you’re not back yet.”
“That would be very nice of you,” Ayla said. She was warming to the young woman, who was obviously trying hard to be friendly. “I’ll be back later,” Ayla said as she left.
After she walked up the log bridge that crossed the creek, she saw Jondalar with several others under the shelter of the first abri. The place had obviously been used to knap flint for a long time. The ground was thick with the sharp-edged chips and flakes left from the process of knapping flint. It would not be wise to walk there with bare feet.
“There you are,” Jondalar said. “We were just getting ready to go back. Joharran was here and said Proleva has organized a meal using meat from one of the bison. She does that so well and so often, people are going to get too used to it, I’m afraid. But everybody has been busy today, and she decided it would be easier. You can walk back with us, Ayla.”
“I didn’t realize it was so close to midday,” she said. As they started toward the Ninth Cave, Ayla saw Joharran ahead of them. She hadn’t seen him coming this way. He must have passed by me when I was talking to Portula and the others, and skinning that hare, she thought. She noticed him heading toward the rude men who were sitting around the fire.
Joharran had seen Laramar and some others, gambling, when he was hurrying to tell the craftspeople at Down River about the meal that Proleva had arranged. He recalled thinking how lazy they were, gaming while everyone else was busy, probably using wood someone else had collected, but when he saw them on the way back, he decided he ought to tell them, too. They were members of the Ninth Cave, even if they didn’t contribute much.
The men were deep in conversation when he approached and didn’t see him coming. As he drew near, he overheard one of them saying, “… What can you expect from someone who says she learned how to heal from flatheads? What can those animals know about healing?”
“That woman is no healer. Shevonar died, didn’t he?” Laramar agreed.
“You weren’t there, Laramar!” Joharran interrupted, trying to keep his temper under control. “As usual, you couldn’t be bothered to join the hunt.”
“I was sick,” the man said defensively.
“Sick from your own barma,” Joharran said. “I’m telling you, no one could have saved Shevonar. Not Zelandoni, not the most skilled healer that ever lived. He had been trampled by a bison. What man can bear the full weight of a bison? If it hadn’t been for Ayla, I doubt that he would have survived until Relona arrived. She found a way to ease his pain. Ayla did as much as anyone could. Why are you spreading malicious rumors about her? What has she ever done to you?” They stopped talking when Ayla and Jondalar and several others walked past.
“Why are you sneaking around listening to private conversations?” Laramar countered, still defensive.
“Walking up to you in full daylight is hardly sneaking, Laramar. I came here to tell you that Proleva and some of the others have prepared some food for everyone, so you could share it,” Joharran answered. “What I heard was said out loud. I couldn’t exactly close my ears.” Then he directed his comments to the others. “Zelandoni is convinced that Ayla is a good healer, why not give her a chance? We should be glad to welcome a person with such good skills, you never know when you might need them yourselves. Now, why don’t you all come and eat?” The leader looked at each man directly, letting them know that he recognized and would remember each one, then he walked away.
The tight little group broke up and followed him toward the other end of the ledge. Some of them agreed with Joharran, at least as far as giving Ayla a chance to prove herself, but a few didn’t want to or could not overcome their prejudice. Laramar, though he had been agreeable with the man who had been talking loudly against her, really didn’t care one way or the other. He tended to go along with whatever way was easiest.
As Ayla walked with the group from Down River toward the work area, staying under the protective overhanging shelf when it started raining harder again, she thought about all the different talents and abilities that people enjoyed exercising to occupy themselves. Many people liked to make things, although the choice of materials they worked with were quite varied. Some, like Jondalar, liked to work with flint to craft tools and hunting weapons, some liked working with wood, or ivory, or bone, some liked working with fibers, or hides. It came to her that some, like Joharran, enjoyed working with people.
As they got closer and her nose detected wonderful cooking odors, Ayla realized that cooking and working with food was also a task some people enjoyed. Proleva’s penchant for organizing community gatherings was obviously something she enjoyed, which was probably the reason for this impromptu feast. Ayla thought about herself and
what she liked to do best. She was interested in many things and enjoyed learning how to do things she had never done before, but more than anything else, she loved being a medicine woman, a healer.
The meal was being served near the large area where people were working on their projects, but as they approached, Ayla noticed that an adjacent area was being set up for a task that may not have been quite as enjoyable but needed to be done. Several nets for drying the meat they had hunted had been stretched out a couple of feet above the ground between upright posts. There was a layer of soil on the stone surface of the abri and its front porch, shallow in some areas, but deep enough to support posts in others. Some uprights were permanently wedged into cracks in the stone or supported by post holes dug into the soil. Piles of rocks were often added for additional bracing.
Other similar constructions, obviously made for the same purpose, were simply pegged and lashed together, making them essentially portable food drying racks. They could be lifted up and leaned against the back wall to get them out of the way when not in use. But when meat or vegetables needed to be dried, the portable frames could be placed anywhere on the floor they wanted. Occasionally meat was dried for preservation near the place it was killed, or on the grassy floodplain below, but when it rained, or just because people wanted to work closer to their homes, they developed ways to support drying cords or netting.
A few small tongue-shaped pieces of meat were already hanging on the drying racks, and small, rather smoky fires were burning nearby, to keep away insects and incidentally to add a flavor to the meat. Ayla thought that after they ate she would offer her help to cut up the meat to dry. She and Jondalar had just selected their food and were deciding where to eat when she saw Joharran stalking toward them with a rapid stride and a grim expression.
“Jondalar, does Joharran seem angry to you?” she asked.
The tall man turned to look at his approaching brother. “I think so,” he said. “I wonder what happened?” He would ask later, he thought.
They glanced at each other, then strolled over to join Joharran, Proleva, her son, Jaradal, Marthona, and Willamar. They were greeted warmly, and a place was made for them. It did seem obvious that the leader was not happy about something, but he did not seem to want to talk about it, at least not with them. They all smiled in welcome when Zelandoni decided to join them, too. She had spent the morning in her dwelling, but came out when people gathered to eat.
“Can I get you something?” Proleva asked.
“I have been fasting and meditating today, preparing myself to search, and still limiting my food,” Zelandoni said, and looked at Jondalar in a way that made him very uncomfortable. He was suddenly afraid that his association with other worlds was not over yet. “Mejera is getting something for me. I asked Folara to help her. Mejera is an acolyte of Zelandoni of the Fourteenth Cave, but she is not happy with her and wants to come here with me, to be my acolyte. I have to consider it, and of course, ask if you would be willing to accept her into the Ninth Cave, Joharran. She’s quite shy and diffident, but definitely has some ability. I wouldn’t mind training her, but you know I have to be particularly careful with the Fourteenth,” Zelandoni said, then she looked at Ayla.
“She was expecting to be selected the First,” the donier explained, “but the zelandonia chose me instead. She tried to stand up to me and force me to step down. It was my first real challenge, and even though she was the one who backed down, I don’t think she has ever really accepted their choice, or forgiven me.”
She addressed everyone again. “I know she will accuse me of luring her best acolyte away if I accept Mejera, but I have to consider what is right for everybody. If Mejera isn’t getting the training she should have to develop her talents, I can’t worry about someone’s hurt feelings. On the other hand, if one of the other Zelandonia would be willing to train her and can form a bond with her, perhaps I can avoid another confrontation with the Fourteenth. I’d like to wait until after the Summer Meeting before making a decision.”
“That seems wise,” Marthona said just as Mejera and Folara joined them. The young acolyte was holding two bowls, and Jondalar’s younger sister carried her bowl plus a waterbag. She had put some eating implements in her carrying pouch. Mejera gave a bowl of clear broth to the First, glanced gratefully at Folara, smiled timidly at Ayla and Jondalar, and then looked down at her food.
There was a moment of uneasy silence, then Zelandoni spoke. “I don’t know how many of you know Mejera.”
“I know your mother, and the man of your hearth,” Willamar said. “You have some siblings, don’t you?”
“Yes, a sister and a brother,” Mejera said.
“How old are they?”
“My sister is a little younger than me, and my brother is about his age,” Mejera said, indicating Proleva’s son.
“My name is Jaradal. I am Jaradal of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii. Who are you?”
He said it with such careful precision, as he had obviously been taught, everyone had to smile, including the young woman. “I am Mejera of the Fourteenth Cave of the Zelandonii. I greet you, Jaradal of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii.”
Jaradal smiled with self-importance. She obviously understands boys his age, Ayla thought.
“We are remiss. I think we should all make proper introductions,” Willamar said. The introductions were made, and everyone greeted the shy young woman warmly.
“Did you know the mate of your mother wanted to be a trader before he met her, Mejera?” Willamar said. “He went on a few trips with me, then he decided he didn’t want to spend so much time away from her, or you, after you were born.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she said, pleased to learn something about her mother and her mother’s mate.
No wonder he’s a good trader, Ayla thought. He has a way with people. He can make anyone feel comfortable. Mejera seemed a little more relaxed, but still a bit overwhelmed by all the attention. Ayla understood how she felt.
“Proleva, I saw some people starting to dry meat from the hunt,” Ayla said. “I’m not sure how meat is divided, or who is supposed to preserve it, but I’d like to help if it’s appropriate.”
The woman smiled. “Of course you can help, if you want. It’s a lot of work, we’d welcome your help.”
“I know I would,” Folara said. “It can be a long, tedious job, unless there are a lot of people working on it. Then it can be fun.”
“The meat itself and half the fat is for everyone to use as they need,” Proleva continued, “but the rest of the animal, the hide, horns, antlers, and all, belongs to the person who killed it. I think you and Jondalar each have a megaceros and a bison, Ayla. Jondalar killed the bison who sacrificed Shevonar, but that one was given back to the Mother. We buried it near his grave. The leaders decided to give both Jondalar and you another one. Animals are marked when they’re butchered, usually with charcoal. By the way, they didn’t know your abelan, and you were busy with Shevonar, so someone asked Zelandoni of the Third. He made a temporary one for you so your hides and other parts could be marked.”
Jondalar smiled. “What does it look like?” He was always conscious of his own enigmatic abelan and curious about the name marks of others.
“I think he saw you as protective or sheltering, Ayla,” Proleva said. “Here, I’ll show you.” She took a stick, smoothed the dirt, and drew a line straight down. Then she added a line starting near the top and slanting down somewhat on one side, and a third line matching it on the other side. “It reminds me of a tent or shelter of some kind, something to get under if it was raining.”
“I think you’re right,” Jondalar said. “It’s not a bad abelan for you, Ayla. You do tend to be protective and helpful, especially if someone is sick or hurt.”
“I can draw my abelan,” Jaradal said. Everyone smiled indulgently. The stick was given to him, and he was allowed to make the drawing. “Do you have one?” he said to Mejera.
“I’m sure she does, Ja
radal, and she will probably be happy to show you. Later,” Proleva said, gently reprimanding her son. A little attention was all right, but she didn’t want him to get in the habit of demanding attention from the adults around him.
“What do you think of your abelan, Ayla?” Jondalar said. He wondered about her reaction to being assigned a Zelandonii symbol.
“Since I didn’t get an elandon with an abelan marked on it when I was born, at least not that I can remember,” Ayla said, “it’s as good a mark as any. I don’t mind using it as my abelan.”
“Did you ever get any kind of mark from the Mamutoi?” Proleva asked, wondering if Ayla already had an abelan. It was always interesting to learn how other people did things.
“When I was adopted by the Mamutoi, Talut cut a mark on my arm to draw blood so he could make a mark with it on the plaque he wore on his chest during ceremonies,” Ayla said.
“But it wasn’t a special mark?” Joharran said.
“It was special to me. I still have the scar,” she said, showing the mark on her arm. Then she added a thought that occurred to her: “It’s interesting how people use different ways of showing who they are, and who they belong to. When I was adopted by the Clan, I was given my amulet bag with a piece of red ochre in it, and when they name a person, the mog-ur makes a line in red from the forehead to the end of the nose. That’s when he tells everyone, especially the mother, what the baby’s totem is, by making the totem mark with salve on the infant.”
“Are you saying your people of the Clan have marks showing who they are?” Zelandoni said. “Like abelans?”
“I guess they are like abelans. When a boy becomes a man, the mog-ur cuts the mark of his totem on him, then rubs in a special ash to make it a tattoo. Girls are not usually cut on the skin, because when they grow up, they will bleed from the inside, but I was marked by the cave lion when he chose me. I have four marks from his claws on my leg. That’s the Clan mark for a cave lion, and that’s how Mog-ur knew he was my totem, even though it’s not usually a female totem mark. It is a man’s, given to a boy who is destined to be a strong hunter. When I was accepted as the Woman Who Hunts, Mog-ur made a cut here,” she put her finger on her throat, just above the breastbone, “to draw blood and used it to mark over the scars on my leg.” She showed the scars on her left thigh.