The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

Zelandoni observed her closely for a while. She knew Jonokol well enough to understand that he would not have made the suggestion without good reason. He must have noted that the young woman was showing some distress, and she did seem to be agitated.

  “Certainly, Jonokol. Why don’t you show her the painted walls,” the First said.

  “I’d like to go with them,” Jondalar said. He wasn’t feeling very calm himself. “And maybe the torch carrier could come with us.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the First Acolyte of the Second, picking up the torch she had put out. “I’ll need to relight it.”

  “There is some fine work on the wall behind the zelandonia, but I don’t want to bother them,” Jonokol said. “Let me show you something interesting down this corridor.”

  He led them down a passageway that turned off to the right from the main one. Immediately on the left, he stopped in front of another panel of reindeer and a horse.

  “Did you do these, too?” Ayla asked.

  “No, my teacher did. She used to be Zelandoni of the Second, before Kimeran’s sister. She was an exceptional painter,” Jonokol said.

  “She was good, but I think the student has outdone the teacher,” Jondalar said.

  “Well, for the zelandonia, it is not so much the quality, although it is appreciated. It is the experience. These paintings are not just for looking at, you know,” the First Acolyte of the Second said.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Jondalar said with a wry smile, “but for me, I think I like the looking more. I must admit, I’m not exactly waiting eagerly for this … ceremony. I’m willing, of course, and I think it may be interesting, but for the most part, I’m happy to let the zelandonia have the experience.”

  Jonokol grinned at his admission. “You are not alone in that feeling, Jondalar. Most people would rather stay firmly in this world. Come, let me show you something else before we have to get serious.”

  The artist acolyte led them to another area on the right side of the passage, where many more stalagmites and stalactites than usual had formed. The wall was covered with the calcareous formations, but on top of the concretions had been painted two horses that incorporated them to create the effect of a long shaggy winter coat. The one behind was leaping in a very animated way.

  “These are very lively,” Ayla said, quite intrigued. She had seen horses behave in similar ways.

  “When boys first see it, they always say this one in back is ‘leaping for Pleasure,’ ” Jondalar said.

  “That is one interpretation,” the woman acolyte said. “That could be a male attempting to mount the female in front, but I believe it is purposely ambiguous.”

  “Did your teacher paint these, Jonokol?” Ayla asked.

  “No. I don’t know who made them,” Jonokol said. “No one does. They were done long ago, when the mammoths were painted. People say they were made by the ancestors, the forebears.”

  “There is something I want to show you, Ayla,” the woman said.

  “Are you going to show her the vulva?” Jonokol said with some surprise. “That is not usually shown on a first visit.”

  “I know, but I think we should make an exception for her,” the other acolyte said, holding up the lamp and leading the way to a place not far from the horses. When she stopped, she lowered the torch to throw light down on a very unusual formation of rock that extended out from the wall and parallel to the floor, but raised up from it.

  When Ayla first looked, she noticed an area of stone that had been enhanced with red, but it was only after looking carefully that she understood what it was, and then perhaps only because she had assisted more than one woman who was giving birth. A man might have recognized it before a woman. By accident—or supernatural design—the concretion had naturally formed an exact replica of a woman’s sexual organ. The shape, the folds, even a depression that matched the entrance to her vagina, everything was there. Only the red color was added, to highlight it, to make sure they could find it easily.

  “It is a woman!” Ayla said, astonished. “It is exactly like a woman! I have never seen anything like it.”

  “Now do you understand why this cave is so sacred? The Mother herself made this for us. It is proof that this cave is the Entrance to the Mother’s Womb,” said the woman who was training to serve the Great Earth Mother.

  “Have you seen this before, Jondalar?” Ayla asked.

  “Only once. Zelandoni showed it to me,” he said. “It is remarkable. It is one thing for an artist like Jonokol to look at a cave wall, see the figure that is in it, and bring it to the surface for everyone to see. But this was here just as it is. The added color only makes it a little easier to see.”

  “There is one more place I want to show you,” Jonokol said.

  He went back the way they had come, and when they reached the enlarged area where everyone was waiting, he hurried past and turned right, back into the main corridor. At what appeared to be the end, on the left was a circular enclosure, and on the wall were concave depressions, the reverse of rounded-out bumps. In some of these, mammoths had been painted in a way that created an unusual illusion. At first glance, they didn’t appear to be depressions; instead, they took on the characteristic of a mammoth’s stomach, rounded outward. Ayla had to look twice, then reach to touch to convince herself that they actually were concave, not convex, dips and not bumps.

  “They are remarkable!” Ayla said. “They are painted so that they seem to be opposite of what they are!”

  “These are new, aren’t they? I don’t recall seeing them before,” Jondalar said. “Did you paint them, Jonokol?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll meet the woman who did,” he said.

  “Everyone agrees, she is exceptional,” the woman acolyte said. “As is Jonokol, of course. We are lucky to have two artists who are so talented.”

  “A few small figures are just beyond here,” Jonokol said, looking at Ayla, “a woolly rhinoceros, a cave lion, an engraved horse, but it’s a very narrow passage and hard to reach. A series of lines marks the end.”

  “They are probably ready for us. I think we should go back,” the woman said.

  As they turned around and were heading back, Ayla glanced up on the right wall, opposite the chapel-like enclosure with the mammoths and back along the corridor a short way. A strange feeling of uneasiness came over her. She was afraid she knew what was coming. She had felt it before. The first time was when she made the drink from the special roots for the mog-urs. Iza had told her it was too sacred to be wasted, so she wasn’t allowed to practice making it.

  She had already become disoriented, first from chewing the roots to soften them, then from the other preparations she had drunk during that night of special ceremony and celebration. When she noticed that there was some liquid left in the ancient bowl, she drank it so it wouldn’t be wasted. The potent concoction had become stronger from soaking, and the effect on her was devastating. In her confused state, she had followed the light of the fires into the honeycombed depths of the cave, and when she’d come upon Creb and the other mog-urs, she hadn’t been able to go back.

  Creb was changed after that night, and she was never the same, either. That was when the mysterious dreams started and the waking moments of strange feelings and enigmatic visions that took her to some other place and sometimes came as warnings. They had been stronger and more prevalent on their Journey.

  And now, as she stared up at the wall, the solid stone suddenly felt tenuous, as though she could see through it or into it. Instead of the firelights barely glinting off the hard surface, the wall was soft and deep and utterly black. And she was there, inside that menacing, nebulous space, and couldn’t find her way out. She felt exhausted and weak, and she hurt deep inside. Then suddenly Wolf appeared. He was running through the tall grass, racing to meet her, coming to find her.

  “Ayla! Ayla! Are you all right?” Jondalar said.

  18

  “Ayla!” Jondalar said, louder.

&
nbsp; “What? Oh, Jondalar. I saw Wolf,” she said, blinking her eyes and shaking her head to try to overcome her dazed confusion and vague sense of foreboding.

  “What do you mean, you saw Wolf? He didn’t come with us. Remember? You left him with Folara,” Jondalar said, his forehead creased with fear and concern.

  “I know, but he was there,” she said, pointing to the wall. “He came for me when I needed him.”

  “He has before,” Jondalar said. “He saved your life, more than once. Maybe you were remembering.”

  “Maybe,” Ayla said, but she didn’t really think that was it.

  “Did you say you saw a wolf there, on that wall?” Jonokol said.

  “Not exactly on it,” Ayla said, “but Wolf was there.”

  “I do think we need to go back,” the woman acolyte said, but she was staring at her with a speculative expression.

  “There you are,” Zelandoni of the Ninth said when they returned to the widened area of the corridor. “Are you feeling more relaxed now and ready to proceed?” She was smiling, but Ayla had the distinct impression that the large woman was impatient and not entirely pleased.

  After her vivid memory of the time when she drank some liquid that altered her perceptions, and her moment of displacement when she saw Wolf in the wall, Ayla was, if anything, feeling less inclined to drink some kind of beverage that would put her into some other kind of reality, or next world; but she didn’t feel that she had a choice.

  “It’s not easy to feel relaxed in a cave like this,” Ayla said, “and it frightens me to think about drinking that tea, but if you think it is necessary, I am willing to do what you want.”

  The First smiled again, and this time it seemed genuine. “Your honesty is refreshing, Ayla. Of course it is not easy to relax here. That is not the purpose of this place, and you are probably right to have some fear of this tea. It is very powerful. I was going to explain to you that you will feel strange after you drink it, and its effects are not entirely predictable. The effects usually wear off in a day or so, and I don’t know of anyone who has been harmed by it, but if you would rather not, no one will hold it against you.”

  Ayla frowned in thought, wondering if she should refuse, but though she was glad she had been given the choice, it made it harder to say no. “If you want me to, I am willing,” she said.

  “I’m sure your participation would be helpful, Ayla,” said the donier. “Yours as well, Jondalar. But I hope you understand, you also have the right to refuse.”

  “You know I’ve always been uncomfortable with the spirit world, Zelandoni,” Jondalar said, “and in the last couple of days, what with digging graves and everything, I’ve been much closer to that place than I want to be until the Mother calls me. But I was the one who asked you to help Thonolan, and I can do no less than help you in any way I can. In fact, I’ll be just as glad to get it all over with.”

  “Then why don’t you both come over here and sit down on this leather pad, and we’ll proceed,” said the First Among Those Who Served The Great Earth Mother.

  When they sat down the young woman ladled the tea into cups. Ayla glanced at Mejera and smiled. She smiled back, shyly, and Ayla realized that she was quite young. She seemed nervous, and Ayla wondered if it was the first time for her to be participating in this kind of ceremony. Probably the zelandonia were using this occasion as a teaching experience.

  “Take your time,” they were told by Zelandoni of the Third, who was assisting the acolyte in handing them the cups. “It tastes strong, but with the mint, it’s not too bad.”

  Ayla took a sip and thought “not too bad” was a matter of opinion. Under any other circumstances, she would have spit it out. The fire in the hearth was out, but the beverage was rather hot, and she thought that whatever else was in it actually made the mint taste bad. Besides, this wasn’t really a tea. It had been boiled, not steeped, and boiling never did bring out the best qualities of mint. She wondered if there weren’t other, more compatible, innocuous, or healing herbs that might blend with the primary ingredients in a pleasanter way. Licorice root, perhaps, or linden flowers added later, after it was boiled. In any case, it wasn’t a taste to savor, and she finally just drank it down.

  She saw that Jondalar had done the same, and so did the First. Then she noticed that Mejera, who had boiled the water and ladled the beverage, had also drunk a cup.

  “Jondalar, is this the stone you brought with you from Thonolan’s burial?” the First said, showing him the small, sharp-edged, ordinary-looking gray stone with one iridescent blue opal face.

  “Yes, it is,” he said. He would recognize that stone anywhere.

  “Good. It is an unusual stone, and I’m sure it still carries a trace of your brother’s elan. Take it in your hand, Jondalar, and then hold hands with Ayla so that the stone is held by both of you. Move close to my seat and with your other hand, take my hand. Now, Mejera, you move up close to me and take my hand, and Ayla, if you will come a little closer, you and Mejera can hold hands.”

  Mejera must be a new acolyte, Ayla thought. I wonder if it is her first time for something like this. It’s my first time with the Zelandonii, although that time at the Clan Gathering with Creb was probably similar, and of course, what I did with Mamut was. She found herself recalling her last experience with the old man of the Lion Camp who interceded with the spirit world, and it did not make her feel better. When Mamut found out she’d had some of the special Clan roots that the mog-urs used, he wanted to try them, but he was unfamiliar with their properties and they were stronger than he had thought. They were both nearly lost to the deep void, and Mamut warned her against ever using them again. Though she did have more of those roots with her, she didn’t plan to take them.

  The four who had consumed the drink were now facing each other, holding hands, the First sitting on a low padded stool, the rest sitting on the leather mat on the ground. The Zelandoni of the Eleventh brought an oil lamp and placed it in the middle of them. Ayla had seen similar lamps but found herself quite intrigued by it. She was already beginning to feel some effects from the drink as she stared at the stone that held fire.

  The lamp was made of limestone. The general shape, including the bowl-like section and the handle extension, had been pecked out with a much harder stone, like granite. Then it was smoothed with sandstone and decorated with symbolic markings etched in with a flint burin. Three wicks were resting against the side of the bowl opposite the handle at different angles, each with one end sticking out of the liquid fat, and the rest of the absorbent material soaking in it. One was quick-starting and hot-burning lichen that melted the fat, the second was dried moss twisted into a sort of cord that gave good light, and the third was made of a dried strip of a porous fungus that absorbed the liquefied fat so well, it kept burning even after the oil was gone. The animal fat that was used for the fuel had been rendered in boiling water so that the impurities fell to the bottom, leaving only pure white tallow floating on top after the water cooled. The flame burned clean, with no visible smoke or soot.

  Ayla glanced around and noted, somewhat to her dismay, that a Zelandoni was putting out an oil lamp, and then she saw another going out. Soon all the lamps were out, except for the one in the center. Seeming to defy its diminutive size, the light from the single lamp spread out and lit the faces of the four people holding hands with a warm golden glow. But beyond the circle deep and utter darkness filled every cranny, every crack and hollow, with a black so complete, it felt thick and stifling. Ayla began to feel apprehensive, then she turned her head and caught the bare glimpse of a glow coming from the long corridor. Some of the lamps that had guided their way must still be lit, she thought, and let out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

  She was feeling very strange. The decoction was taking effect quickly. It seemed as though things around her were slowing down or that she was going faster. She looked at Jondalar and found him staring at her, and she had the strangest sense that she almost knew w
hat he was thinking. Then she looked at Zelandoni and Mejera, and felt something, too, but it was not as strong as her feeling with Jondalar, and she wondered if she was imagining it.

  She became conscious of hearing music, flutes, drums, and people singing, but not with words. She wasn’t quite sure when or even from where it originated. Each singer maintained a single note, or series of repetitive notes, until he or she ran out of breath, and then would take a breath and start again. Most singers and the drummers repeated the same thing over and over, but a few exceptional singers varied their song, as did most of the flute players. Beginning and ending at each person’s own choosing meant that no two people started or stopped at the same time. The effect was a continuous sound of interweaving tones that changed as new voices began and others ended, with an overlay of divergent melodies. It was sometimes atonal, sometimes closely harmonic, but overall a strangely wonderful, beautiful, and powerful fugue.

  The other three people in her circle were singing as well. The First, with her beautiful, rich contralto, was one who varied her tones in a melodic way. Mejera had a pure, high voice, and a simple, repetitive set of tones. Jondalar also sang a repetition of tones, a chant he had obviously perfected and was happy with. Ayla had never really heard him sing before, but his voice was rich and true, and she liked the sound. She wondered why he didn’t sing more.

  Ayla felt that she should join in, but she had attempted to sing when she lived with the Mamutoi and knew she simply didn’t know how to carry a tune. She never learned as a child, and it was a little late to learn now. Then she heard one of the men nearby who just crooned in a monotone. It reminded her of when she was living alone in her valley and used to hum a similar monotone at night while she rocked herself to sleep, the leather cloak that she had used to hold her son to her hip crumpled up into a ball and held close to her stomach.

  Very softly, she began to hum her low-pitched monotone and found herself rocking very slightly. There was something soothing about the music. Her own humming relaxed her, and the sounds of the others gave her a comforting, protected feeling, as though they were supporting her and would be there for her if she needed them. It made it easier for her to give in to the effects of the drink, which was having a strong influence on her.