The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  “Then you already have an abelan. That’s your mark, those four lines,” Willamar said.

  “I think you are right,” Ayla said. “I don’t feel anything about the other mark, maybe because it’s just a mark of convenience, so that people will know who to give some hides to. Even though my Clan totem mark is not a Zelandonii sign, it is a mark that is special to me. It meant that I was adopted, that I belonged. I would like to use it as my abelan.”

  Jondalar thought about what Ayla said about belonging. She had lost everything, she didn’t know to whom she was born, or who her people were. Then she had lost the people who raised her. She had referred to herself as “Ayla of No People” when she’d met the Mamutoi. It made him realize how important belonging was to her.

  17

  There was an insistent tap on the panel beside the entrance drape. It woke Jondalar, but he lay in his sleeping roll, wondering why someone wasn’t answering it. Then he realized that no one but him seemed to be home. He got up and called out, “Be there in a moment,” while he was putting on a few clothes. He was surprised to see Jonokol, the artist who was Zelandoni’s acolyte, only because the young man seldom paid a visit without his mentor. “Come in,” he said.

  “The Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave says it is time,” Jonokol said.

  Jondalar’s brow creased. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood what Jonokol meant, but he had a good idea, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d had his share of the other world. He didn’t really want to have to deal with that place again.

  “Did Zelandoni say what it was time for?” Jondalar asked.

  Jonokol smiled at the tall man’s sudden nervousness. “She said you would know.”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Jondalar said, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Can you wait until I find something to eat, Jonokol?”

  “Zelandoni always says it’s best if you don’t.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Jondalar said. “But I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea to wash my mouth out with. I’m still tasting sleep.”

  “They may have some tea for you to drink,” Jonokol said.

  “I’ll bet they do, but I don’t think it’s mint, and that’s what I like first thing in the morning.”

  “Zelandoni’s teas are often flavored with mint.”

  “Flavored, yes, but it’s probably not the main ingredient.”

  Jonokol just smiled.

  “All right,” Jondalar said with a wry grin. “I’ll come right away. I hope no one minds if I go to pass water first.”

  “It’s not necessary to hold your water,” the young acolyte said, “but bring something warm to wear.”

  When Jondalar came back, he was both surprised and pleased to see Ayla waiting with Jonokol, tying the sleeves of a warm tunic around her waist. Jonokol had probably told her to bring something warm, too. Watching her, it occurred to him that the night before last was the first time he had not slept with Ayla since he was captured by the S’Armunai on their Journey, and it left him feeling rather unsettled.

  “Hello, woman,” he whispered in her ear when he rubbed her cheek with his in greeting, then embraced her. “Where did you go this morning?”

  “To empty the night basket,” Ayla said. “When I came back I saw Jonokol and he said Zelandoni wanted us, so I went to ask Folara if she would keep Wolf. She said she’d find some children to keep him occupied. I went down to check on the horses earlier. I heard some other horses nearby. I wonder if we should build a surround of some kind to keep them.”

  “Perhaps,” Jondalar said. “Especially when it’s time for Whinney’s Pleasures. I’d hate to have a herd try to capture her, Racer would probably try to follow her.”

  “She’ll have her foal first,” Ayla said.

  Jonokol listened, interested in hearing about the horses. They had obviously gained knowledge in their association with them. Ayla and Jondalar left with Jonokol. When they reached the stone front porch of the Ninth Cave, Jondalar noticed that the sun was quite high.

  “I didn’t know it was so late,” he said. “I wonder why someone didn’t get me up sooner?”

  “Zelandoni suggested that you be allowed to sleep since you may be up late tonight,” Jonokol said.

  Jondalar took a deep breath and blew it out of his mouth as he shook his head. “Where are we going, by the way?” he said as they walked beside the acolyte along the ledge toward Down River.

  “To Fountain Rocks,” Jonokol said.

  Jondalar’s eyes opened wide with surprise. Fountain Rocks—a cliff that featured two caves and the immediate area around it—was not the home of any particular Cave of Zelandonii; it was much more important than that. It was one of the most sacred places in the entire region. Though no one lived there regularly, if any group could call it home, it was the zelandonia, the Ones Who Served, for this was a place blessed and sanctified by the Great Earth Mother Herself.

  “I am going to stop for a drink of water,” Jondalar said emphatically as they approached the bridge over the creek of fresh spring water that divided the Ninth Cave from Down River. He wasn’t going to let Jonokol talk him out of quenching his thirst, even if he had let the man dissuade him from having his morning cup of mint tea.

  Near the streamlet a few feet from the bridge, a post had been pounded into the ground. A drinking cup made of cattail leaves torn into strips and woven watertight was attached to it with a cord; if it wasn’t attached, it was often lost. The cup was changed periodically as it became worn, but as long as Jondalar could remember, one had been there. It had been learned long ago that the sight of the fresh sparkling water invariably inspired thirst, and while a person could bend over and reach in with hands to get a drink, it was much easier to have a cup handy.

  They all had a drink, then continued along the well-used trail. They forded The River at the Crossing, and at Two Rivers Rock turned into Grass Valley, crossed the second river, then followed the path alongside it. People from other Caves waved and greeted them as they passed by, but made no attempt to delay them. All the zelandonia of the area, including the acolytes, had already gone to Fountain Rocks, and everyone had a good idea where the two people with Zelandoni’s acolyte were going.

  They also had some idea why. In the tight-knit community, word had gotten out that they had brought back something that might help the zelandonia to find the wandering spirit of Jondalar’s dead brother, Thonolan. Though they knew it was important to help guide a newly liberated elan to its proper place in the world of the spirits, the idea of entering the next world before they were called by the Mother was not something most people wanted to do. It was fearful enough to think about helping Shevonar’s elan, who had just passed on and was probably nearby, but to look for the spirit of someone who had died far away and a long time ago was something they didn’t even want to contemplate.

  Not many, except for the zelandonia—and not all of those—would have wanted to trade places with Jondalar or Ayla. Most people were happy to let the Ones Who Served The Mother deal with the world of the spirits. But no one else could do it; only they knew where Jondalar’s brother had died. Even the One Who Was First knew this would be an exhausting day, though she was intrigued and wondered if they would be able to find Thonolan’s roving spirit.

  As Ayla, Jondalar, and Jonokol continued upstream, an imposing outcrop of rock loomed ahead on the left. The massive rock stood out with such prominence that it seemed almost a monolith, but a closer look revealed that it was only the first spur of a progression of cliffs that pulled back in a line at right angles to Grass River. The stately stone at the head of the cliffs reared up from the valley floor, rounded to a bulge in the middle, narrowed toward the top, then abruptly flared out into a flat-topped jaunty cap.

  Moving around to the front and looking straight on at the rock that extended out ahead, one could, with a little imagination, envision in the cracks and rounded shapes, the cap as hair, a high forehead below the cap, a fl
attened nose, and two nearly closed eyes enigmatically looking over a slope of scree and brush. To those who knew how to look, the subtly anthropomorphic front view was understood to be a hidden face of the Mother, one of the few visages of Herself She ever chose to show, and even that was well disguised. No one could ever look directly upon the face of the Mother, not so much as a likeness of it, and even mysteriously disguised, Her face held unspeakable power.

  The row of cliffs flanked a smaller valley with a creek down the middle that ran into Grass River. The source of the small stream was a spring that bubbled out of the ground with such energy, it created a small fountain with a deep pool surrounding it in the middle of a wooded glen. The common name was Fountain of the Deep, and the small waterway running from it was called Fountain Creek, but the zelandonia had other names for them, which most people also knew. The spring and pool were the Birth Waters of the Mother, and the creek was the Blessed Water. They were known to have great powers to heal and particularly to help women conceive, if used correctly.

  A path over twelve hundred feet long climbed up the side of the stone wall well beyond the leading spur to a terrace not far from the top, with a small rock overhang that sheltered the mouths of two caves. The numerous cavities in this region of limestone cliffs were sometimes called “caves,” but were thought of as hollowed-out spaces in the rock and often referred to as “hollows” as well. Conversely, an especially long or deep cave was sometimes referred to as a “deep.” The opening to the left on the small terrace penetrated the rock only twenty feet or so, and was used as a living space for those who stayed there from time to time, usually zelandonia. It was generally known as Fountain Hollow, but some referred to it as Doni’s Hollow.

  The cave on the right led to a deep passage that went four hundred feet into the heart of the huge cliff, with chambers, alcoves, niches, and other passages leading off the main corridor. This was the place that was so sacred that its esoteric name was usually not even voiced. The site was so well-known, and so revered, it wasn’t necessary to declare its sanctity and power to the mundane world. If anything, those who knew its true meaning preferred to understate it, not make an issue of it in ordinary existence. That was the reason people referred to the cliffs simply as Fountain Rocks, and why the cave was called the Deep Cave in Fountain Rocks or, sometimes, Doni’s Deep.

  It was not the only sacred site in the region. Most caves had some measure of sanctity attached to them, and some places outside of caves were also blessed, but the deep cave in Fountain Rocks was one of the most exalted. Jondalar knew of a few others that equaled Fountain Rocks, but none was more important. As they continued up the cliff with Jonokol, Jondalar felt a combination of excitement and dread and, as they approached the terrace, a frisson of fearful anticipation. This wasn’t something he really wanted to do, but for all his apprehension, he did wonder if Zelandoni could find the free spirit of his brother, what would be expected of him, and how it would feel.

  When they reached the high terrace in front of the caves, two more acolytes met them, a man and a woman. They had been waiting just inside the mouth of the deep cave on the right. Ayla paused for a moment and turned around to see where she had come from. The lofty stone porch overlooked Fountain Creek Valley and part of Grass Valley with its river, and the panorama was impressive, but somehow, when they entered the passage, the closer views within the dark cavity were more daunting.

  Especially in daytime, stepping into the cave brought an immediate transformation, a shift in perspective from an open, expansive view to a close, narrow corridor, from stone-reflecting sunlight to disquieting dark. The change went beyond the physical or external. Especially to those who understood and accepted the inherent power of the place, it was a metamorphosis that went from easy familiarity to apprehensive fear, but also a transition into something rich and wondrous.

  Only a few feet of the ingress could be seen from the light outside, but as eyes became accustomed to the diminished light at the entry, the rock walls of the constricted passage suggested the way into the shadowy interior. A small vestibule just beyond the opening held a lighted stone lamp resting on a projecting piece of the wall, and several unlit lamps. In a natural stone niche below it were torches. Jonokol and the other young man picked up a lamp, then a thin, dry stick, which they held to the flame of the burning lamp until it ignited. With it, they each lit the moss wicks that were resting against the edge of the bowl of a lamp, opposite the handle, soaking in the slightly congealed fat. The woman lit a torch and beckoned to them.

  “Watch your footing,” she said, holding the torch lower to show the uneven floor and the wet, glistening clay that filled in some of the spaces between the rocks that were jutting up. “It can be slippery.”

  When they started into the passage, picking their way carefully across the uneven floor, there was still a suggestion of light from the outside. It diminished quickly. After something more than a hundred feet the darkness was complete, held back only by the soft glow of small flames. A sigh of moving air strayed down from the stalactites suspended from the ceiling, bringing a chill of fear as the tiny lights of the lamps flickered. They knew that once into the depths, if the fire went out, a blackness more complete than the darkest night would obscure all vision. Only hands and feet on cold, damp rock could show the way, and might lead only to a dead-end passage rather than the way out.

  A deeper black on the right, no longer reflecting the small flames off damp stone walls, indicated that the distance to that side had increased; perhaps a niche or another passageway. Behind them and ahead, the tenebrious gloom was palpable, the blackness almost suffocatingly thick. The wisp of air was the only manifestation of a corridor that led back to the outside. Ayla wished she could reach for Jondalar’s hand.

  As they proceeded, the lamps the acolytes carried were not the only light. Several shallow, bowl-shaped stone lamps had been placed on the floor at intervals along the dark corridor, casting a light that seemed amazingly bright in the darkness within the cave. A couple of them were sputtering, however. They either needed more fat to melt into the bowl or a new moss wick, and Ayla hoped someone would tend to them soon.

  But the lamps gave Ayla an eerie sense that she had been in this place before, and an irrational fear that she would be again. She didn’t want to follow the woman in front of her. She had not thought of herself as one who feared caves, but there was something about this one that made her want to turn around and run, or touch Jondalar for reassurance. Then she remembered walking the dark corridor of another cave, following the small fires of lamps and torches, and finding herself watching Creb and the other mog-urs. She shivered at the memory and suddenly realized that she was cold.

  “You might want to stop and put on your warm clothing,” the woman in front said, turning back and holding up the lamp for Ayla and Jondalar. “It’s rather cold deep in a cave, especially in summer. In winter, when it’s snowy and icy outside, it actually feels rather warm. The deep caves stay the same all year.”

  The stop for something as ordinary as putting on her long-sleeved tunic had steadied Ayla. Although she had been ready to turn around and run out of the cave, when the acolyte started walking again, Ayla took a deep breath and followed her.

  Although the long passageway had seemed narrow and the temperature had become progressively colder, after another fifty feet the rocky corridor closed in even more. A greater humidity in the air was verified by a sheen of moisture reflected off the walls, the stalactite icicles projecting down from the ceiling, and their stalagmitic mates growing up from the floor. At slightly more than two hundred feet into the dark, damp, and chilly cave, the floor of the passageway ascended, not blocking the way, but making it difficult to proceed. It was tempting to turn back here, to think this was far enough, and many a faint-heart had. It tested determination to continue beyond this point.

  Holding the torch, the woman in front climbed up the rocky incline to a small, constricted opening higher up. Ayla watche
d the wavering light as she climbed, then breathed deeply and started up over sharp stones until she reached the woman. She followed her through a narrow aperture, scrambling over more rocks to get through the opening that descended into the heart of the stone cliff.

  The nearly subliminal passage of air in the first section was noticeable now only for its lack. After the confined gap, no movement of air could be detected at all. The first indication that someone had come this way before was three red dots painted on the left-hand wall. Not long afterward, Ayla saw something else in the flickering light of the torch the woman in front held. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes and wished the acolyte would stop for a moment and hold the light closer to the left wall. She stopped and waited for the tall man behind her to catch up.

  “Jondalar,” she said in a quiet voice, “I think there is a mammoth on that wall!”

  “Yes, there is, more than one,” Jondalar said. “I think if there wasn’t something that Zelandoni felt was more important to do right now, this cave would be shown to you with the proper ceremony. Most of us were brought in here when we were children. Not young children, old enough to understand, but still children. It’s frightening, but wonderful, when you see this place for the first time, if it’s done right. Even when you know it’s all part of the ceremony, it’s exciting.”

  “Why are we here, Jondalar?” she asked. “What is so important?”