by Jean M. Auel
“Do you know what was in it?” Ayla asked.
“She did tell me the ingredients, but I don’t know the proportions. Even though we like to share our knowledge, most zelandonia like to keep a few secrets.” The One Who Was First smiled. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m sure it must have been very strong,” Ayla said, then looked down at the cup of tea in her hands. “I was wondering if there was anything in it that could have caused me to miscarry.”
“Ayla, don’t blame yourself,” Zelandoni said, leaning forward and taking her hand. “I know it hurts to lose a baby, but you had no control over that. It was the sacrifice the Mother demanded of you, perhaps because She had to bring you close enough to the Next World to give you Her message. There may be something in this mixture that would cause a miscarriage, but perhaps there was no other way. It may have been She who caused you to take this when you did so that everything would happen as She wished.”
“I’ve never made a mistake like that with the medicines in my bag. I was careless. So careless, I lost my baby,” Ayla said, as though she hadn’t even heard the First.
“Because you don’t make those kind of mistakes is all the more reason to believe it was Her will. Whenever She calls someone to Serve Her, it is always unexpected, and the first time that one goes to the Spirit World alone is especially dangerous. Many never find their way back. Some leave something behind, as you did. It is always dangerous, Ayla. Even if you have gone there many times, you never know if this is the time that you will not find your way back.”
Ayla was quietly sobbing, the tears glistening on her cheeks.
“It’s good that you are letting go. You’ve held it in for too long, and you need to grieve for that baby,” the Donier said. She got up, took both cups, and went to the back, where the bandaging skins were stored. When she returned, she poured more tea. “Here,” she said, handing her the soft animal hide, and put the tea on the table.
Ayla wiped her eyes and her nose, took a deep breath to settle herself, then took a sip of the warmish tea, struggling to get herself under control again. It was more than losing the baby that had caused her tears, although that had been the catalyst. She couldn’t seem to do anything right. Jondalar had stopped loving her, people hated her, and she had been so careless that she lost her baby. She had heard Zelandoni’s words, but she didn’t fully comprehend and it didn’t change how she felt.
“Perhaps now you can understand why I’m so interested in those roots you talk about,” the First said when it seemed that Ayla was feeling better. “If the experience can be carefully watched and controlled, we may have another helpful way to reach the Next World when we need to, like this mixture in the pouch, and some other herbs we sometimes use.”
Ayla didn’t hear her at first. When Zelandoni’s words finally reached her, she recalled that she had never wanted to experiment with those roots again. Though The Mog-ur had been able to control the effects of the powerful substance, she was sure she would never be capable of it. She believed only a Clan mind, with its unique differences, and the Clan memories, could control it. She didn’t think anyone born to the Others could ever control the black void, no matter how well they were watched.
She knew that the First was fascinated. Mamut had been intrigued, too, about the special plants used only by the mog-urs of the Clan, but after their dangerous experience together, Mamut had said he would never use them again. He told her he was afraid he would lose his spirit in that paralyzing black void, and had warned her against them. Reliving the terrifying journey to that menacing unknown place when she was deep in the cave, and vividly recalling it during her initiation, made the memory too disturbingly fresh. And she knew that even her unnerving recollection was only a faint shadow of the real experience.
Yet, in the black despair of her present state of mind, she wasn’t thinking clearly. She should have had time to regain her balance, but too much had happened too fast. Her ordeal in the cave when she was called, including the miscarriage, had weakened her both physically and emotionally. The pain and the jealousy, and the disappointment, of finding Jondalar with another woman were intensified by her experience in the cave, and by her loss. She had been looking forward to the knowing touch of his hands and the closeness of his body, to the thought of replacing the baby she had lost, to the healing comfort of his love.
Instead she found him with another woman, and not just any woman, the woman who had viciously and knowingly tried to hurt her before. Under normal circumstances, she might have been able to take his indiscretion in stride, especially if it had been with someone else. She might not have been happy about it. They had been too close. But she understood the customs. They were not so different from those of the men of the Clan, who could choose whatever woman they wanted.
She knew how jealous Jondalar had been about her and Ranec when they lived with the Mamutoi, even though she didn’t know what was causing the barely controlled violence of his reaction. Ranec had told her to come with him, and she was raised by the Clan. She hadn’t learned yet that among the Others, she had the right to say no.
When they finally resolved the problem and she left with Jondalar back to his home, she had decided in her own mind that she would never give him cause to be jealous of her again. She never chose anyone else, even though she knew it would have been acceptable, and to her knowledge, he never did either. He certainly never did openly, as the other men did. When she was confronted with the fact that he not only had chosen someone else, but that he had been choosing that particular woman, in secret, for a long time, she felt utterly betrayed.
But Jondalar had not meant to betray her. He wanted to keep her from finding out so she wouldn’t be hurt. He knew she never chose anyone else, and at a certain level, he even knew why. Though he would have struggled to control it, he knew how jealous he would have been if she had chosen someone else. He did not want her to experience the intensity of pain that he would have felt. When she found them together, he was beside himself. He simply didn’t know what to do; he had never learned.
Jondalar was born to grow into a six-foot, six-inch tall, well-formed, incredibly handsome man, with an unconscious charisma enhanced by a vividly intense shade of blue eyes. His natural intelligence, innate manual dexterity, and intrinsic mechanical skill were discovered early, and he was encouraged to apply it in many areas until he discovered his love for knapping flint and making tools. But his powerful feelings were also stronger than most, far too intense, and his mother and those who cared about him struggled to teach him to keep them under control. Even as a child he wanted too much, cared too much, felt too much; he could be overcome with compassion, yearn with desire, rage with hate, or burn with love. He was given too much, too many Gifts, and few understood what a burden that could be.
When he was a young man, Jondalar had been taught how to please a woman, but that was a normal practice of his culture. It was something all young men were taught. The fact that he’d learned it so well was partly because he had been taught so well, and partly the result of his own natural inclination. He discovered young that he loved pleasing women, but he never had to learn how to interest a woman.
Unlike most men, he never had to find ways to make a woman notice him; he couldn’t help but be noticed; he sought ways to get away, occasionally. He never had to think about how to meet a woman; women went out of their way to meet him; some threw themselves at him. He never had to entice a woman to spend her time with him; women couldn’t get enough of him. And he never had to learn how to handle loss, or a woman’s anger, or his own blundering mistakes. No one imagined that a man with his obvious Gifts wouldn’t know how.
Jondalar’s reaction when something didn’t go right was to withdraw, try to keep his feelings under control, and hope that somehow it would sort itself out. He hoped that he would be forgiven, or his mistakes overlooked, and usually that was what happened. He didn’t know what to do when Ayla saw him with Marona, and Ayla wasn’t any more adept a
t handling those kinds of situations.
From the time she was first found by the Clan as a five-year, she had struggled to fit in, to make herself acceptable so they would not turn her out. The Clan didn’t cry emotional tears and hers disturbed them, so she learned to hold them back. The Clan didn’t display anger or pain or other strong emotions—it was not considered proper—so she learned not to show hers. To be a good Clan woman, she learned what was expected of her, and tried to behave the way she was expected to behave. She had tried to do the same with the Zelandonii.
But now she was at a loss. It seemed obvious to her that she had not learned how to be a good Zelandonii woman. People were upset with her, some people hated her, and Jondalar didn’t love her. He had been ignoring her, and she had tried to provoke him to respond to her, but his brutal attack on Laramar was completely unexpected, and she felt, beyond all doubt, that it was entirely her fault. She had seen his compassion, and his love, and had seen him control his strong feelings when they were living with the Mamutoi. She thought she knew him. Now she was convinced she didn’t know him at all. She had been trying to maintain a semblance of normality by sheer force of will, but she was tired from lying awake too many nights, too full of worry, pain, and anger to sleep, and what she needed desperately was calm surroundings and rest.
Perhaps Zelandoni had been a little too interested in learning about the Clan root, or she might have been more perceptive, but Ayla had always been a case apart. They didn’t have enough common points of reference. Their backgrounds were far too different. Just when she thought she really understood the young woman, she’d find out that what she thought was true about Ayla was not.
“I don’t want to make it a big issue if you really feel we shouldn’t, Ayla, but if you could tell me something about how to prepare this root, perhaps we can work out a small experiment. Just to see if it might be useful. It would be just for the zelandonia, of course. What do you think?” Zelandoni said.
In Ayla’s troubled state, even the terrifying black void struck her as a restful place, a place to get away from all the turmoil around her. And if she didn’t come back, what difference would it make? Jondalar didn’t love her anymore. She would miss her daughter—Ayla felt a tight knot grip her stomach—then thought Jonayla would probably be better off without her. The child was missing Jondalar. If she wasn’t there, he would come back and take care of her again. And there were so many people who loved her, she would be well cared for.
“It’s not that complicated, Zelandoni,” Ayla said. “Essentially the roots are chewed to a mash and spit into a bowl of water. But they are hard to chew, and it takes a long time, and the one who is preparing it is not supposed to swallow any of the juice. It could be that it’s a necessary ingredient, the juice that accumulates in the mouth,” Ayla said.
“That’s all? It seems to me if you just use a small amount, like one would test anything new, it shouldn’t be that dangerous,” Zelandoni said.
“There are some Clan rituals involved. The medicine woman who prepares the root for the mog-urs is supposed to purify herself first, bathe in a river using soaproot, and she is not supposed to wear clothing. Iza told me that was so the woman would be unsullied and open, with nothing hidden, so that she would not contaminate the holy men, the mog-urs. The Mog-ur, Creb, painted my body with red and black colors, mostly circles around the female parts, to isolate them, I think,” Ayla said. “It is a very sacred ceremony to the Clan.”
“We could use the new cave you found. It is a very Sacred Place, and private. This would be a good use for it,” the First said. “Anything else?”
“No, except when I tried the root with Mamut, he made sure that the people of the Lion Camp kept chanting so we would have something to hold on to, something that would keep us tethered to this world, and help us find our way back.” She hesitated, looked down at the empty cup still in her hands, and added softly, “I’m not sure how, but Mamut said Jondalar may have helped bring us back.”
“We will make sure all the zelandonia are there. They are very good at sustained chanting. Does it make any difference what is chanted?” the First asked.
“I don’t think so. Just something familiar,” Ayla said.
“When should we plan to do it?” Zelandoni asked, more excited than she thought she would be.
“I don’t think it matters.”
“Tomorrow morning? As soon as you can get everything ready?”
Ayla shrugged, as if she didn’t care. At that moment, she didn’t. “It’s as good a time as any, I suppose,” she said.
39
Jondalar was filled with as much anxiety and despair as Ayla. He had tried to avoid everyone as much as possible since the big ceremony where everyone was told about men and why they were created. He recalled parts of that night only vaguely. He did remember smashing Laramar in the face over and over again, and he couldn’t erase from his mind the picture of that man moving up and down on top of Ayla. When he woke up the next day, his head was pounding, and he was still somewhat dizzy and very nauseous. He couldn’t remember ever being so sick the next day, and wondered what was in the drinks he consumed.
Danug was there and he thought he ought to feel grateful to him, but he didn’t know why. He asked Danug questions, trying to fill in the blanks. As Jondalar learned what he had done, he started to recall what had happened and was appalled, and full of remorse and shame. He had never much liked Laramar, but nothing he had ever done could be as bad as what Jondalar had done to him. He was so filled with self-hatred, he could not think of anything else. He was sure everyone felt the same way about him, and he was convinced that Ayla could not possibly love him anymore. How could anyone love someone so despicable?
Part of him wanted to leave everything behind and just go, as far away as he could get, but something held him back. He told himself he had to face his punishment, at least find out what it would be and somehow make amends, but it was more that things felt unfinished and he couldn’t go leaving everything so unresolved. And deep inside, he wasn’t sure he could simply walk away from Ayla and Jonayla. He couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing them again, even if only from a distance.
His mind became a confusion of pain, guilt, and desperation. He could think of nothing he might do to make his life right again, and every time he saw anyone, he was sure they were looking at him with the same disgust and loathing that he felt about himself. Part of his self-recrimination stemmed from the fact that as dispicably as he’d behaved, and as ashamed as he was, every time he closed his eyes to try to sleep at night, he would see Laramar on top of Ayla, and feel the same rage and frustration he’d felt then. He knew in his heart that under the same circumstances, he would do it again.
Jondalar’s mind dwelled on his problems constantly. He could hardly think of anything else. It was an incessant itch, like continually picking on the scab of a minor cut, never giving it a chance to heal, making it worse and worse until it became a running infection. He tried to get away from people as often as he could, and began taking long walks, usually beside the bank of The River, most often upstream. Each time he went he’d walk a little farther, stay a little longer, but he always reached a point where he could not go on and would have to turn around and walk back. Occasionally, he would get Racer and instead of walking along the river would ride out across the open grassland. He resisted taking his horse too often because it was then that he was most tempted to keep on going, but this day he wanted to ride out and put some distance between himself and the Camp.
As soon as she was fully awake, Ayla got up and went to The River. She hadn’t slept well; at first she was too edgy and restless to fall asleep, and then she was awakened by dreams that she couldn’t quite remember, but that left her uneasy. She thought about what she needed to do to make the Clan ceremony as close to correct as possible. While she looked for soaproot to purify herself, she also kept an eye out for a nodule of flint or even a leftover piece of reasonable size. She wanted to
make a cutting tool in the Clan way that she could use to cut off a piece of leather to make a Clan amulet.
When she came to the mouth of the small stream as it emptied into The River, she turned to follow it instead. She had to walk upstream some distance before she found a few soaproot plants, in the woods behind the camp of the Ninth Cave. It was late in the season and most had been picked, and then the variety she found wasn’t the same plant that the Clan used, and she had wanted the ritual to be right. Although, since she was a woman, it would never be a Clan ceremony anyway. Only men of the Clan consumed the roots. The woman’s job was only to prepare them. As she stooped to pull the soaproots out, she thought she caught a glimpse of Jondalar in the woods, walking alongside the small stream, but when she stood up, she didn’t see him and wondered if it was her imagination.
The stallion was glad to see Jondalar. The other horses were, too, but he didn’t want to take them. He was in the mood for a long run alone. When they reached the open plains, Jondalar urged the horse into a thundering gallop across the land. Racer seemed just as eager to live up to his name. Jondalar wasn’t paying much attention to where they were going, or where they were. Suddenly, he was literally jerked out of his moody meditation when he heard a loud belligerent neigh, the sound of hoofs, and felt his mount begin to rear. They were in the middle of a herd of horses. It was only his years of riding and quick reflexes that enabled him to keep his seat. He lunged forward and grabbed a handful of the stand-up mane of the steppe horse and held on, struggling to calm the stallion and get him back under control. Racer was a healthy stallion in his prime. Though he’d never had the experience of living in the auxiliary male herd that stayed near the fringes of a primary herd of females and young, keeping the herd stallion constantly on guard and ready to defend his own, or of the play-fighting with other young males as he was growing up, yet he was instinctively ready to challenge the herd male.