by Jean M. Auel
Suddenly Mamut was there, holding her back. “It is not what you think. It is a symbol, a message,” he said. “Watch and wait.”
A third man appeared on the windblown steppes. It was Broud, looking at her with a glare of pure hatred. The first two men reached each other, then both turned to face Broud.
“Curse him, curse him, curse him with death,” Durc motioned.
“But he is your father, Durc,” Ayla thought with silent apprehension. “You should not be the one to curse him.”
“He is cursed already,” her other son said. “You did it, you kept the black stone. They are all cursed.”
“No! No!” Ayla screamed. “I’ll give it back. I can still give it back.”
“There is nothing you can do, Ayla. It is your destiny,” Mamut said.
When she turned to face him, Creb was standing beside him. “You gave us Durc,” the old Mog-ur signed. “That was also your destiny. Durc is part of the Others, but he’s Clan, too. The Clan is doomed, it will be no more, only your kind will go on, and the ones like Durc, the children of mixed spirits. Not many, perhaps, but enough. It won’t be the same; he will become like the Others, but it is something. Durc is the son of the Clan, Ayla. He’s the only son of the Clan.”
Ayla heard a woman weeping, and when she looked, the scene had changed again. It was dark; they were deep in a cave. Then lamps were lit and she saw a woman holding a man in her arms. The man was her tall, blond son, and when the woman looked up, to her surprise Ayla saw herself, but she was not clear. It was as though she was seeing herself in a reflector. A man came and looked down at them. She looked up and saw Jondalar.
“Where is my son?” he asked her. “Where is my son?”
“I gave him to the Mother,” the reflected Ayla cried. “The Great Earth Mother wanted him. She is powerful. She took him from me.”
Suddenly, Ayla heard the crowd, and saw the strange geometric shapes. “The Earth Mother grows weak,” the voices chanted. “Her children ignore Her. When they no longer Honor Her, She will be ravished.”
“No,” the reflected Ayla wailed. “Who will feed us? Who will care for us? Who will provide for us, if we don’t Honor Her?”
“The Mother is gone. Only the Son remains. The Mother’s children are no longer children. They have left the Mother behind. They have the Knowledge; they have come of age, as she knew someday they would.” The woman still wept, but she wasn’t Ayla anymore. She was the Mother, weeping because her children were gone.
Ayla felt herself being pulled out of the cave; she was weeping, too. The voices became faint, as though they were chanting from a great distance away. She was moving again, high above a vast grassy plain, full of great herds. Aurochs were stampeding, and horses were racing to keep up with them. Bison and deer were running, and ibex. She drew closer, began to see individual animals, the ones she had seen when she was called to the zelandonia, and the disguises that they had worn during the ceremony when they had given the Mother’s new Gift to Her Children, when she recited the last verse of the Mother’s Song.
Two bison bulls running past each other, great aurochs bulls marching toward each other, a huge cow almost flying in the air, and another one giving birth, a horse at the end of a passage falling down a cliff, many horses, most in colors, browns and reds and blacks, and Whinney with the spotted hide over her back and across her face, and the two sticklike antlers.
40
Zelandoni was not with Ayla on her arcane inward Journey, but she sensed it, and felt herself pulled toward it. Perhaps if she had consumed more of the drink, she might have been drawn in with Ayla and become lost in the enigmatic landscape induced by the root. As it was, she did lose control of her faculties for a period of time, and had her own difficulties.
The zelandonia weren’t quite sure what was going on. Ayla appeared to be unconscious, and the First seemed close to it. She wasn’t exactly dozing off, but she would slump down, and her eyes would glaze over as if she were gazing into some unseen distance. Then she would rouse herself and say things that didn’t always make sense. She did not appear to be in control of the experiment, which was unusual in itself, and she definitely was not in control of herself, which made them all nervous. Those who knew her best were most alarmed, but they did not want to spread their concern among the rest.
The First shook herself awake, as if by an act of will. “Cold … cold …,” she said, then slumped over again and her eyes glazed. The next time she jerked herself awake, she shouted, “Cover … fur … cover Ayla … cold … so cold. Get hot …” Then she was gone again.
They had brought a few warm coverings with them, just because it was always cool in a cave. They had already put one on Ayla, but the Eleventh decided to add another one. When she happened to touch the young woman, she was surprised.
“She is cold, almost as cold as death,” she said.
“Is she breathing?” the Third asked.
The Eleventh bent over and looked closely, noticed a slight movement of her chest and felt a faint sigh of air from her barely open mouth. “Yes, she’s breathing. But it’s shallow.”
“Do you think we should make some hot tea?” the Fifth asked.
“Yes, I think so, for both of them,” the Third said.
“A stimulating tea or a soothing one?” said the Fifth.
“I don’t know. Either one could react with that root in an unexpected way,” the Third said.
“Let’s try to ask the First. She’s the one who should decide,” the Eleventh said.
Her companions nodded. The three of them surrounded the large woman who was sitting on her stool, slumped over. The Third put her hand on the First’s shoulder and gently nudged her, and then a little harder. Zelandoni jerked awake. “Do you want hot tea?” the Third asked.
“Yes! Yes!” the First said, loudly again, as though shouting helped her stay awake.
“Ayla, too?”
“Yes. Hot!”
“Tea to stimulate or soothe?” the Eleventh asked, also speaking loudly. The Zelandoni of the Fourteenth Cave walked over, frowning with concern.
“Stimul … No!” The First stopped, straining to concentrate. “Water! Just hot water!” she said. She shook herself again, trying to stay awake. “Help me up!”
“Are you sure you can stand?” the Third asked. “You don’t want to fall.”
“Help me up! Need to stay awake. Ayla needs … help.” She started to fall off again, and shook herself violently. “Help me stand. Get hot … water. Not tea.”
The Third, Eleventh, and Fourteenth all crowded around the hugely corpulent woman who was the First Among Those Who Served The Mother, and with some effort got her up on her feet. She wavered drunkenly, leaned heavily on two of the Zelandoni, and shook her head again. She closed her eyes and her expression took on a look of intense concentration. When she opened them, she was gritting her teeth with determination, but had stopped swaying.
“Ayla’s in trouble,” she said. “My fault. Should have known.” She was still having difficulty concentrating, thinking straight, but being up and moving around did help. The hot water did, too, if only to warm her. She felt cold, a deep, bone-chilling cold, and she knew it wasn’t just being in the cave. “Too cold. Move her. Need fire. Warmth.”
“You want us to move Ayla out of the cave?” the Fourteenth said.
“Yes. Too cold.”
“Should we wake her?” the Eleventh asked.
“I don’t think you can,” the First said, “but try.”
First they tried gently shaking her, then not so gently. Ayla didn’t stir. They tried talking to her, then shouting, but they couldn’t rouse her.
Zelandoni of the Third asked the First, “Should we continue chanting?”
“Yes! Chant! Don’t stop! It’s all she’s got!” the Zelandoni who was First shouted.
The higher-ranked zelandonia gave a few instructions. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity as several people rushed outside and hurried to the z
elandonia lodge, some to stir up a fire for hot water, others to get a litter to carry the young woman out of the cave. The rest renewed the chanting with fervor.
Several people were near the zelandonia lodge. A meeting of the couples planning to tie the knot at the Late Matrimonial had been planned later in the day, and a few of them had started to gather. Folara and Aldanor were among them. When several zelandonia came rushing toward the lodge, Folara and Aldanor looked at each other with concern.
“What’s wrong? Why is everyone is such a hurry?” Folara asked.
“It’s the new Zelandoni,” a young man answered, one of the newer acolytes.
“You mean Ayla? Zelandoni of the Ninth?” Folara asked.
“Yes. She made a special drink using some kind of root, and the First said we have to get her out of the cave because it’s too cold. She’s not waking up,” the acolyte answered.
They heard a commotion, and turned to look. A couple of strong young doniers were helping the First back from the cave. She was having difficulty keeping her balance and finding her footing without stumbling. Folara had never seen Zelandoni so unstable. A wave of apprehension washed over her. The One Who Was First was always so completely self-assured, so positive. Even with her great size, she always moved with confidence and ease. It had been bad enough for the young woman to watch her mother weakening. It was utterly frightening to see someone she had always thought of as an unshakable force, a bulwark of security and strength, suddenly show such debility.
About the time that the First reached the lodge, another group of zelandonia appeared on the path leading down from the new cave carrying a litter, piled high with furs. As the procession approached, Folara and Aldanor could hear the distinctive interwoven sounds of zelandonia chanting. When the litter passed by, Folara looked at the young woman she had come to know and love, her brother’s mate. Ayla’s face was pasty white, and her breathing so shallow, she didn’t seem to be moving at all.
Folara was horrified, and Aldanor could see her alarm. “We have to get mother, and Proleva, and Joharran,” she said. “And Jondalar.”
Although it was difficult, and even a little embarrassing, the walk down to the lodge from the cave had helped to clear Zelandoni’s head. She dropped down on her large, comfortable stool gratefully and was glad for the cup of hot water. She hadn’t dared to suggest an herb or medicinal to counteract the effects of the root, not when she wasn’t thinking clearly, for fear its reaction in combination with the root might make the effects worse. Now that her head was more clear, though her body was still feeling the effects of the powerful root, she decided to experiment on herself. She added some stimulating herbs to a second cup of hot water, and sipped it slowly, trying to judge if she could feel anything. She wasn’t sure if they helped, but at least they didn’t seem to make things worse.
She stood up, and with a little assistance, went back to the bed, recently vacated by Laramar, where they had put Ayla. “Have you tried to give her hot water?” she asked.
“We haven’t been able to get her mouth open,” said a young acolyte who was standing nearby.
The First tried to pry Ayla’s mouth open, but her jaws were clamped shut, as though she were straining against something with all her might. The Donier pulled back the covers and noticed her whole body was rigid. She was icy cold and clammy to the touch in spite of all the furs on her.
“Pour some hot water in that large bowl,” she said to the young man. Several others who were standing around hurried to help him.
She hadn’t been able to open the young woman’s mouth. If she couldn’t get any heat inside her, she would have to try to apply more heat from the outside. The First took several of the pieces of bandage material, both soft skins and fabric, that were still nearby and dumped them into the bowl of steaming water. Carefully, she squeezed the hot liquid out and applied a hot dressing to Ayla’s arm. By the time she put another one on the other arm, the first one was cold.
“Keep more hot water coming,” she said.
She untied the rope that was wrapped around Ayla’s garment, and with the help of several zelandonia to lift her, unwound it from around her, noting the ingenious way it had secured the buckskin on her. Ayla was not quite naked, the First noted. She was wearing an arrangement of straps that held on the absorbent leather pad stuffed with cattail fuzz between her legs.
It is either her moontime, or she is still bleeding from the miscarriage, Zelandoni thought. If nothing else, it means Laramar did not start new life in her. Matter-of-factly, the Donier checked to see if she needed to be changed, but it appeared she was at the end of her flow. It was barely soiled, and she left the pad intact.
Then, with the help of several other doniers, she began placing hot, damp absorbent skins and cloths on Ayla in an attempt to drive away the deep cold that held the young woman. She herself had had only a taste of the internal chill, but it was enough to make her appreciate just how cold it felt. Finally, after many applications of heat, Ayla’s rigid body seemed to relax; at least her jaw unclamped. Zelandoni hoped it was a good sign, but she had no way of knowing for sure. She personally covered Ayla with warm furs. It was all she could do for now.
Her large, sturdy stool was brought and the One Who Was First sat beside the newest Zelandoni and began her anxious vigil. For the first time, she became conscious of the chanting that had been continuous from the beginning, with some joining in and others dropping out as they grew tired.
We may have to bring in more people to maintain it if this wait goes on too long. Zelandoni didn’t even want to think beyond the wait. When she did, she kept in her mind the thought that Ayla would eventually wake up and she would be fine. Any other outcome was too painful to comtemplate. If I hadn’t been so curious about those intriguing new roots, would I have been more perceptive? the First wondered. Ayla did seem rather upset and nervous when she arrived, but all the zelandonia were there, and looking forward to this unique ceremony in the new cave. She had watched Ayla chewing the roots for a long time, and finally spitting them into the bowl of water, and then she decided to try some herself.
That was her first warning. The effects that she felt from that single drink were so much greater than she had anticipated. Though she’d had some bad moments, she was glad now that she did. It gave her a sense of what Ayla was going through. Who would have thought that such innocuous-looking dried roots could be so powerful? What were they? Did the plant grow anywhere nearby? It obviously had some unique properties, some of which might be beneficial for specific uses, but if there were to be any further experimentation, it would have to be under much more careful and controlled circumstances. It was a very dangerous root.
She had barely settled into the meditative state she usually assumed for long vigils when one of the zelandonia approached the First. Marthona and Proleva, along with Folara, had arrived and were asking to come in.
“Of course they can come in,” Zelandoni said. “They may be of help, and we may need it before this is over.”
When the three women were ushered in, they noticed several zelandonia were chanting over a bed near the back. Zelandoni was sitting beside it.
“What happened to Ayla?” Marthona asked when she saw her lying pallid and unmoving on the bed.
“I wish I knew for sure,” Zelandoni said. “And I’m afraid I may be largely to blame. Over the past few years, Ayla spoke occasionally about a root that was used by the … mog-urs, I think she calls them, the ones of her Clan who know of the spirits. They used it to help them enter the Spirit World, though only as part of special ceremonies, or so I understood. The way she talked about the root, I was sure she had used it, but she was always very cryptic about it. She did say that the effects were very powerful. I was intrigued, of course. Anything that can assist the zelandonia to communicate with the next world is always of interest.”
Stools were brought for the three, and cups of chamomile tea. When they were settled, the First continued.
“I
didn’t know until recently that Ayla still had some of those roots, and that she believed they would still be effective. Frankly, I doubted it. Most herbs and medicinals lose strength over time. She claimed that if they were properly stored, they became concentrated, gained in strength over time. I thought perhaps a small experiment might get her to think about something besides her worries. I knew she was troubled over Jondalar, and that whole sad incident the night of the festival, especially after miscarrying when she was called …”
“You can’t believe how difficult that was for her, Zelandoni,” Marthona said. “I know it is never easy to be called—that’s part of it, I suppose—but with the miscarriage and all, I will tell you, there were moments when I thought we’d lose her. She bled so heavily, I was afraid she was bleeding her life away. I was almost ready to send for you. If it had continued like that much longer, I would have, though I’m not sure you would have arrived in time.”
Zelandoni nodded. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have let her come so soon,” she said.
“There was no way I could stop her. You know how she is when she decides she wants to do something,” Marthona said. Zelandoni nodded in acknowledgment. “She couldn’t wait to see Jondalar, and Jonayla. Especially after losing one, she wanted to see her child, and I think she wanted to start another one. And she was sure she knew how. I think that’s partly why she wanted to see Jondalar so bad.”
“She saw him, all right,” Proleva said, “with Marona.”
“I don’t understand Jondé sometimes,” Folara said. “Of all people, why couldn’t he leave her alone?”
“Probably because she wouldn’t leave him alone,” Proleva said. “His needs have always been strong. She made it too easy.”
“And then what does he do when she decides to take her turn at the Festival?” Folara said. “It’s not like she didn’t have the right.”