by Jean M. Auel
Laramar was there, the man who was known for making the potent alcoholic brew from almost anything that would ferment. While they didn’t have the refinement of the wine that Marthona made, the drinks he produced weren’t bad. He did very little of anything else and had perfected what had become his “craft,” but he made it in quantity and many people regularly drank too much, creating problems. His only other claim to fame had been a hearthful of unkempt children, and a slovenly mate who indulged heavily in his product. Ayla and the rest of the Cave took more care of the children than either Laramar or Tremeda did.
Now the oldest girl, Lanoga, was mated to Lanidar and had a child of her own, but the young couple had adopted all her younger siblings. Her older brother, Bologan, also lived with them and helped to provide for the children. He had also helped to build their new dwelling, along with Jondalar and several others. Her mother, Tremeda, and Laramar also lived with them occasionally, when they chose to go to a place they called home, and both of them behaved as though it was theirs.
Besides Laramar, Ayla noticed the distinctive forehead markings of a Zelandoni on one man, but when he smiled, she saw the gap of his missing front teeth and frowned, realizing it was Madroman. Had he already been accepted into the zelandonia and tattooed? She didn’t think so. She looked again and noticed that an edge of the “tattoo” was smeared. He must have painted it on, using the colors that some people used to temporarily decorate their faces for special occasions, but she had never seen anyone decorate with Zelandoni marks before.
Seeing him reminded her of the backpack she had found in the cave and had brought to the First. Though he invariably smiled and tried to engage her in conversation, she had always felt uneasy around Madroman. He disturbed her in a way that made her think of how a horse’s fur looked when it was stroked opposite to the direction in which it grew; he rubbed her the wrong way.
She saw many young men, talking and laughing loudly, but there were other men of all ages. From what she knew of those she recognized, none of them contributed much. Some were not too bright, or were easily led. One of them spent most of his time drinking Laramar’s brew, barely stumbling home each night, and often could be found in some out-of-the-way place completely unconscious, smelling of drink and vomit. Another was known to be unnecessarily brutal, especially to his mate and her children, and the zelandonia had talked of ways to intercede, waiting only for his mate to ask for help.
Then almost hidden in the shadows, she caught sight of Brukeval sitting somewhat off by himself with his back to a tall, roughly pointed stump, taking a drink from one of the bags. His temper still bothered her, but he was a cousin of Jondalar’s and had always been kind to her. She hated to see him with such an unsavory lot.
She was about to turn away when she heard Wolf growl low in his throat. A voice spoke up loudly behind her back.
“Well, look what we have here. The animal lover, and a couple animals.”
She spun around in surprise. A couple of animals, she thought, but I only have Wolf … it took her a moment before she realized that he had called Echozar an animal. She felt her anger rise.
“The only animal I see here is a wolf … or were you thinking of yourself?” Ayla countered.
There were a few guffaws from some who had heard the remarks and she saw the man frown. “I wasn’t saying I was an animal,” he said.
“That’s good. I wouldn’t put yourself in the same category as Wolf. You don’t measure up,” she said.
Some of the other men pulled the brush aside to see what was going on. They saw Ayla holding her daughter on one hip, her leg in front of the wolf to restrain him, and Echozar holding a torch.
“She sneaked up and was watching us,” the man said defensively.
“I was walking along a main path and stopped to see who was making all the noise,” Ayla said.
“Who is she? And why does she talk so funny?” asked a young man Ayla didn’t know. Then he added with surprise, “That’s a wolf!” Ayla had all but forgotten about her “accent” and so had most of the people who knew her, but occasionally a stranger brought it to her attention. From the pattern on the man’s shirt, and the design of the necklace he wore, she guessed he was from a Cave that lived on another river to the north, a group that did not regularly attend their Summer Meeting. He must have arrived only recently.
“She’s Ayla of the Ninth Cave, the one Jondalar brought back with him,” Madroman said.
“And she’s a Zelandoni who can control animals,” another man said. Ayla thought he was from their neighbor, the Fourteenth Cave.
“She’s not Zelandoni,” Madroman said with an air of condescension. “She’s an acolyte, still in training.”
He had obviously not yet seen her new tattoo, Ayla thought.
“But when she came, she could already control that wolf and a couple of horses,” the man from the Fourteenth Cave said.
“I told you she was an animal lover,” the first man said with a sneer, looking pointedly at Echozar.
Echozar glared back, and moved toward Ayla protectively. This was a large group of men, and they had been drinking Laramar’s brew. It had been known to bring out the worst in people.
“You mean like those horses from that Cave camped upstream?” the stranger said. “That’s the first place I was taken when I got here. She’s the one who controls them? I thought it was that man and the girl.”
“Gray is my horse,” Jonayla spoke up.
“They’re all the same hearth,” Brukeval said, strolling into the firelight.
Ayla glanced from Brukeval to Echozar, and saw their similarity immediately. Brukeval was clearly a modified version of Echozar, though neither of them was fully Clan.
“I think you should let Ayla get on her way,” Brukeval continued. “And I think it might be smart to have our parties a little farther off the main path in the future.”
“Yes, I think that is a good idea,” said another voice that had suddenly appeared. Joharran, accompanied by some other men, stepped into the light of the torch held by Echozar. Several of them had unlit torches, which they immediately lit from Echozar’s, showing how many there were. “We heard you, and came to see what was going on. There are plenty of places to have drinking parties, Laramar. I don’t think you men need to be bothering people who are walking along main paths between camps. Perhaps you should move your party now. We don’t need children stumbling over you in the morning.”
“He can’t tell us where to go,” a slurred voice called out.
“That’s right, he can’t tell us where to go,” said the first man who had seen Ayla.
“It’s all right,” Laramar said, picking up several of the small drinking bags that had not been unstoppered, and putting them in a backframe. “I’d rather find a place where we won’t be bothered.”
Brukeval began to help him. He glanced up at Ayla and caught her eye. She smiled at him with gratitude for taking her part and suggesting they move. He smiled back with a lingering expression that puzzled her, then frowned and looked away. She put Jonayla down and knelt to restrain Wolf while the men moved off.
“I was going to walk over to the Lanzadonii camp to talk to Dalanar, anyway, Echozar,” Joharran said. “Why don’t you walk back with me? Ayla can go on with Solaban and the others.”
Ayla wondered what was so important that Joharran had to talk to Dalanar about that it couldn’t wait until morning. Neither one was going anywhere in the dark. Then she noticed a few of the men who had been sitting around the fireplace move out from behind a bush and head in the direction the others had taken, their heads turning to watch Echozar, Joharran, and a couple of others go. She frowned with concern. Something did not feel right.
“I’ve never seen such goings-on with the zelandonia,” Joharran commented. “Have you heard anything about the special ceremony everyone says they are planning? Ayla has her mark, but they haven’t announced her yet. They usually do it right away. Has she said anything to you?”
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br /> “She’s been so busy with the zelandonia, I haven’t seen much of her,” Jondalar said, which was not entirely true. He had not seen much of her, but not because she was so busy. He was the one who had been staying away and his brother knew it.
“Well, it looks like they must be planning something very big. Zelandoni spent a long time talking with Proleva, and she told me the zelandonia want a huge, elaborate feast. They are even talking to Laramar about supplying his brew for the festival. We’re getting together a hunting party, probably be gone a day or two. Do you want to join us?” Joharran asked.
“Yes,” Jondalar answered, almost too quickly, causing his brother to give him a questioning look. “I’d be glad to.”
If he’d been thinking straight, Jondalar might have recalled that Ayla had said something to him when he first saw her, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything but Ayla finding him with Marona since the incident. He just couldn’t bring himself to simply crawl into the sleeping furs beside her under the circumstances. He didn’t even know if she would let him. He was certain he had lost her, but was afraid to find out for sure.
He thought he had managed to find a plausible excuse for not returning to their camp another night, when Proleva asked him about it. He had actually slept near the horse enclosure, using horse blankets, and the ground covering he and Marona had used at the swimming place for bedding, to keep warm, but he didn’t think he could continue staying away without arousing curiosity from the whole Camp. Being away on a hunting trip would solve the problem for the next day or two. He didn’t even want to think beyond that.
Though Ayla was trying to behave as if nothing were wrong, and Jondalar thought his avoidance of her went unnoticed, in fact the whole camp was aware by now that something was wrong between the couple, and many guessed what it was. His clandestine trysts with Marona were not nearly so secret as he had thought. To most people, he was just being appropriately discreet and they ignored the affair. But the news that the formerly doting couple had not even shared the same bed since Ayla arrived, even though Marona had moved to a different camp, had spread quickly.
It was the kind of gossip people loved to speculate about. The fact that Ayla had been marked as a Zelandoni without being immediately announced, and that plans for a major ceremony were under way, only added to the delicious innuendos. People were guessing that the event had something to do with the newest Zelandoni, but no one seemed to know anything for sure. Usually one or another of the zelandonia would let something slip to an interested questioner, but this time none of them was talking. Some people were suggesting that even the acolytes didn’t know the real reason for the big festival, though they all tried to act as if they did.
Jondalar was hardly aware that a celebration was being planned, and until Joharran had asked him to join the hunting party, he didn’t care. Then it only became an excuse to get away for a while. He had seen Marona a few times. When she heard the rumors about the estrangement of Ayla and Jondalar, she had made a point of seeking him out, but he had lost all interest in her. He was little more than coldly polite when she spoke to him, but she was not the only one who tried to find out how serious their breach was. Brukeval also came to the camp of the Ninth Cave.
Though he had traveled to the Summer Meeting with the Ninth Cave, Brukeval had long since moved away to sleep in the men’s summer lodges, the “far lodges” that were constructed around the periphery of the Summer Meeting Camp—commonly shortened to “fa’lodges.” Some were used by young men recently elevated to manhood status, some by older men who were not yet mated or were between mates, or men who wished they were. Brukeval had never mated. He’d always had a secret fear of being refused, and had never asked anyone. Besides, none of the available women seemed all that interesting to him. Since he had no immediate family or children, he felt out of place at the Main Camp, and even around the more frequently used areas of the Ninth Cave. As the years went by and most of the men his age took mates, he avoided ordinary activities and familiar people more and more, and by default often ended up with the idlers who attached themselves to Laramar to partake of the brew he made, frequently imbibing of it himself for the forgetfulness it induced.
Brukeval had tried a few different men’s tents at the Summer Meeting, but finally settled in the one that housed many of the men he knew from the Ninth Cave who enjoyed easy access to Laramar’s brew. Laramar himself slept there most of the time rather than returning to the tent of his mate and her children. The children weren’t very welcoming lately, especially since Lanoga mated that boy with the feeble arm. She’d grown up to be pretty enough, Laramar thought; she could have gotten a better man, though he’d heard the boy could hunt. Madroman often chose that men’s tent as well, rather than the large dwelling of patronizing zelandonia, where he was still only an acolyte, even though he told everyone that he had been called.
Brukeval didn’t much like the men he chose to live with, a shiftless bunch who had little to offer and even less respect. He knew he was brighter and more capable than most of them. He was related to the families of those who often became leaders and he had grown up with people who were responsible, intelligent, and often talented. The men with whom he shared a fa’lodge were essentially lazy, weak willed, or slow, with no generosity of spirit or heart and few other redeeming qualities.
As a result, in an effort to bolster their own self-worth and as an outlet for their frustrations, they fed each other’s vanity and conceit with bragging contempt for something they could feel superior to: those dirty, stupid animals called Flatheads. They told each other that while they were not human, they could be tricky. Because Flatheads bore a vague resemblance to real people, they were sometimes clever enough to confuse the spirits that made a woman pregnant so that she gave birth to an abomination, and that was intolerable. For reasons of his own, the one thing Brukeval had in common with the men with whom he shared living space was a deep and abiding hatred for Flatheads.
Some of the men were brutal bullies, and in the beginning one or two had actually tried to bait and tease him about having a Flathead mother, but after he had demonstrated his irrational anger and powerful strength a few times, none dared to bother him again, and most came to treat him with more respect than anyone else who shared their fa’lodge. Besides, he did have some influence with the Cave leaders since he knew many of them, and had spoken up for one or another of the men who had gotten himself in deeper than usual trouble. Many of the men began to look to him as a leader of sorts. So did some of the Caves. They felt that he could be a restraining influence, and by the middle of the summer, if any of the men who lived there were being especially troublesome, Brukeval was the one people went to.
When he appeared at the Main Camp of the Ninth Cave, ostensibly to share a midday meal and visit with the people of his Cave, it caused some conjecture. Ayla had gone early. She was deeply involved with the activities of the zelandonia, and had taken Jonayla to stay with Levela along the way. In fact, most of the women were gone. With her usual organizing flair, Proleva had gathered up everyone she could find, assigning jobs here and delegating there, to begin the preparations for a great feast that would feed the entire Summer Meeting. The only women at the camp were the ones going on the hunt.
Proleva had left behind some food for the midday meal of the hunters who were gathering at the camp of the Ninth Cave. The hunting party would have to fend for themselves on the trail. Most of them had packed dried traveling food along with their equipment, tents, and sleeping rolls, though they did expect to eat fresh food they killed or collected most of the time.
Since he was there and was known to be a more than adequate hunter, Joharran invited him along on the hunt. Brukeval hesitated only a moment. He wondered about the situation between Ayla and Jondalar, and thought that perhaps during the camaraderie of a hunt, he might be able to find out.
Brukeval had never forgotten the way Ayla had faced them all down when Marona had tricked her into wearing entire
ly inappropriate clothing to her own welcoming party—now all the women were wearing similar outfits, he’d noticed. He remembered how warm she had been to him when they first met, the way she smiled, almost as though she knew him, with none of the hesitation or reservation most women showed. And he dreamed of her in her beautiful and unusual Matrimonial clothing, often seeing himself removing it, and after all these years, he still daydreamed about what it would be like if he were Jondalar lying beside her on soft furs.
Ayla had always been pleasant to him, but after that first night, he sensed a feeling of distance from her that was different from that first welcome. Brukeval had withdrawn more into himself as the years had gone by, but without their being aware of it, he knew a great deal about Jondalar and Ayla’s life together, even intimate details. Among other things, he knew that Jondalar had been coupling with Marona—of all people—for some time. He also knew that Ayla never joined with anyone else, not even at Mother Festivals, and that she did not know about Jondalar and Marona.
Brukeval returned to the fa’lodge for his hunting gear, and by the time he got back to the Ninth Cave’s camp, he was actually looking forward to the hunt. He hadn’t really been included in one since he took up residence with the men he currently shared sleeping space with. As a rule, most hunting party leaders didn’t bother asking the men from that tent to join them, and they seldom organized their own hunts, except for Brukeval, who had often gone off alone over the years and had learned to hunt or forage enough for himself when he wanted to.
The other men usually cadged something to eat from one Cave or another, often returning to the camps of their own Caves. Madroman had no concern about meals. He usually ate with the zelandonia, who were customarily supplied quite well by the Caves, usually in exchange for general services, but also for specific requests. Laramar also had his own resources. He traded his brew, and found no lack of willing consumers.