by Jean M. Auel
She wasn’t reserved, exactly—she smiled and talked with easy comfort—just composed and not quite reachable. The only time he caught a glimpse of something more was when she looked at her son.
“What took you so long?” the boy said with relief when he saw them coming. “We’re ready to eat, but everyone’s been waiting for you.”
Darvo had seen Jondalar and his mother together at the far edge but didn’t want to interrupt them. Initially, he had been resentful of having to share his mother’s undivided attention at the hearth. But he found that rather than having to share his mother’s time, there was now someone else who paid attention to him. Jondalar talked to him, told him of his adventures on his Journey, discussed hunting and the ways of his people, and listened to him with unfeigned interest. Even more exciting, Jondalar had begun to show him some techniques of toolmaking, which the lad picked up with an aptitude that surprised them both.
The youngster had been overjoyed when Jondalar’s brother had decided to mate Jetamio and stay, because he fervently hoped it might mean Jondalar would decide to stay and mate his mother. He had become very conscious of staying out of the way when they were together, trying in his own way not to impede their relationship. He didn’t realize that, if anything, he encouraged it.
In fact, the idea had been on Jondalar’s mind all day. He found himself appraising Serenio. Her hair was lighter than her son’s, more a dark blond than brown. She wasn’t thin, but so tall she gave that impression. She was one of the few women he’d met who reached his chin, and he found that a comfortable height. There was a strong resemblance between mother and son, even to the hazel of their eyes, though his lacked her impassiveness. And on her the fine features were beautiful.
I could be happy with her, he thought. Why don’t I just ask her? And at that moment, he truly wanted her, wanted to live with her.
“Serenio?”
She looked at him and was held by the magnetism of his unbelievably blue eyes. His need, his desire focused on her. The force of his charisma—unconscious and all the more powerful for it—caught her unaware and broke through the defenses she had so carefully erected to avoid pain. She was open, vulnerable, drawn almost against her will.
“Jondalar …” Her acceptance was implicit in the texture of her voice.
“I … think much today.” He struggled with the language. He could express most concepts, but he was having trouble finding a way to speak his thoughts. “Thonolan … my brother … Travel far together. Now he love Jetamio, he want stay. If you … I want …”
“Come on, you two. Everyone’s hungry and the food is …” Thonolan broke off as soon as he saw them standing close, lost in the depths of each other’s eyes. “Uh … sorry, Brother. I think I just interrupted something.”
They backed off; the moment had passed. “It’s all right, Thonolan. We shouldn’t make everyone wait. We can talk later,” Jondalar said.
When he looked at Serenio, she seemed surprised and confused, as though she didn’t know what had come over her—and she was struggling to repair her shield of composure.
They walked into the area under the sandstone overhang and felt the warmth of the large fire in the central hearth. At their appearance, everyone found places around Thonolan and Jetamio, who stood in a central clear space behind the fire. The Feast of Promise marked the festive beginning of a ritual period that would culminate in the Matrimonial celebration. During the interval, communication and contact between the young couple would be severely curtailed.
The warm space formed by the people, permeated with a sense of community, encircled the couple. They joined hands, and, seeing only perfection in each other’s eyes, wanted to announce their joy to the world and affirm their commitment to each other. The Shamud stepped forward. Jetamio and Thonolan kneeled to allow the healer and spiritual guide to place a crown of fresh-budding hawthorn on each of their heads. They were led, still hand in hand, around the fire and the assembled group three times and then back to their place, closing a circle that embraced the Cave of Sharamudoi with their love.
The Shamud turned to face them and, with upraised arms, spoke. “A circle begins and ends in the same place. Life is as a circle that begins and ends with the Great Mother; the First Mother who in Her loneliness created all life.” The vibrant voice carried easily over the hushed gathering and the crackling flames. “Blessed Mudo is our beginning and our end. From Her we come; to Her we return. In all ways, She provides for us. We are Her children, all life springs from Her. She gives freely of Her abundance. From Her body, we take sustenance: food, water, and shelter. From Her spirit come gifts of wisdom and warmth: talents and skills, fire and friendship. But the greater Gifts come from Her all-encompassing love.
“The Great Earth Mother takes joy in Her children’s happiness. She delights in our enjoyments, and therefore, She has given us Her wondrous Gift of Pleasure. We honor Her, show Her reverence, when we share Her Gift. But to the Blessed among us She has given Her greatest Gift, endowed them with Her own miraculous power to create Life.” The Shamud looked at the young woman.
“Jetamio, you are among the Blessed. If you honor Mudo in all ways, you may be endowed with the Mother’s Gift of Life and give birth. Yet, the spirit of the Life you bring forth comes only from the Great Mother.
“Thonolan, when you make a commitment to provide for another, you become as She who provides for us all. By so honoring Her, She may endow you with creative power as well, so that a child brought forth by the woman you care for, or another of Mudo’s Blessed, may be of your spirit.” The Shamud looked up at the group.
“Each of us, when we care for and provide for each other, honors the Mother and are blessed with Her fruitfulness.”
Thonolan and Jetamio smiled at each other and, when the Shamud stepped back, sat down on woven mats. That was the signal for the feast to begin. The young couple were first brought a mildly alcoholic drink made of dandelion blossoms and honey that had fermented since the last new moon. Then more of the beverage was passed around to everyone.
Tantalizing odors made everyone realize how hard they had worked that day. Even those who had stayed back at the high terrace had been busy, as was obvious when the first wonderfully aromatic dish was brought forth. Planked whitefish, caught in fish traps that morning and baked near the open fire, was presented to Thonolan and Jetamio by Markeno and Tholie, their counterpart family of Ramudoi. Tangy wood sorrel that had been boiled and beaten to a pulp was served as a sauce.
The taste, new to Jondalar, was one he immediately enjoyed and found a wonderful complement to the fish. Baskets of small edibles were passed around to accompany the dish. When Tholie sat down, he asked her what they were.
“Beechnuts, collected last fall,” she said, and went on to explain in detail how they were stripped of their leathery outer skins with sharp little flint blades, then carefully roasted by shaking them with hot coals in flat platter-shaped baskets kept moving to prevent scorching, and finally rolled in sea salt.
“Tholie brought the salt,” Jetamio said. “It was part of her bride gift.”
“Many Mamutoi live near sea, Tholie?” Jondalar asked.
“No, our Camp was one of the closest to Beran Sea. Most Mamutoi live farther north. The Mamutoi are mammoth hunters,” she said with pride. “We traveled north every year for the hunts.”
“How you mate Mamutoi women?” the blond Zelandonii asked Markeno.
“I kidnapped her,” he replied, with a wink at the plump young woman.
Tholie smiled. “It’s true,” she said. “Of course, it was all arranged.”
“We met when I went along on a trading expedition to the east. We traveled all the way to the delta of the Mother River. It was my first trip. I didn’t care if she was Sharamudoi or Mamutoi, I wouldn’t come back without her.”
Markeno and Tholie told about the difficulties their desire to mate had caused. It had taken long negotiations to work out the arrangements, and then he’d had to “
kidnap” her to get around certain customs. She was more than willing; the mating could not have taken place without her consent. But there were precedents. Though not common, similar matings had occurred before.
Populations of humans were sparse and so widely spaced that they seldom infringed on each other’s territories, which tended to make the infrequent contact with the occasional stranger a novelty. If a little wary at first, people were usually not hostile, and it wasn’t uncommon to be welcomed. Most hunting peoples were accustomed to traveling long distances, often following migratory herds with seasonal regularity, and many had long traditions of individual Journeys.
Frictions developed more often from familiarity. Hostilities tended to be intramural—confined within the community—if they existed at all. Hot tempers were kept in check by codes of behavior, and most often settled by ritualized customs—although these customs were not calcified. The Sharamudoi and the Mamutoi were on good trading terms, and there were similarities in customs and languages. To the former, the Great Earth Mother was Mudo, to the latter, She was Mut, but She was still the Godhead, Original Ancestor, and First Mother.
The Mamutoi were a people with a strong self-image, which came through as open and friendly. As a group, they feared no one—they were, after all, the mammoth hunters. They were brash, confident, a bit ingenuous, and convinced that everyone saw them on their own terms. Though the discussions had seemed interminable to Markeno, it had not been an insurmountable problem to arrange the mating.
Tholie herself was typical of her people: open, friendly, confident that everyone liked her. In truth, few people could resist her forthright ebullience. No one even took offense when she asked the most personal questions, since it was obvious there was no malicious intent. She was just interested and saw no reason to curb her curiosity.
A girl approached them carrying an infant, “Shamio woke up, Tholie. I think she’s hungry.”
The mother nodded her thanks and put the baby to her breast, with hardly a break in the conversation or feasting. Other small edibles were passed: pickled ash keys that had been soaking in brine, and fresh pignuts. The small tuber resembled wild carrot, a sweet groundnut Jondalar was familiar with, and the first taste was nutty, but the hot aftertaste of radish was a surprise. Its zesty flavor was a favorite of the Cave, but he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. Dolando and Roshario brought the next offerings to the young couple—a rich chamois stew and a deep red bilberry wine.
“I thought the fish was delicious,” Jondalar said to his brother, “but this stew is superb!”
“Jetamio says it’s traditional. It’s flavored with the dried leaves of bog myrtle. The bark is used in tanning the chamois skins—that’s what gives them the yellow color. It grows in marshes, particularly where the Sister joins the Mother. It was lucky for me they were out collecting it last fall, or they never would have found us.”
Jondalar’s forehead creased as he recalled the time. “You’re right; we were lucky. I still wish there was some way I could repay these people.” His frown deepened when he remembered his brother was becoming one of them.
“This wine is Jetamio’s bride gift,” Serenio said.
Jondalar reached for his cup, took a sip, and nodded. “Is good. Is much good.”
“Very good,” Tholie corrected. “It is very good.” She had no compunctions about correcting his speech; she still had a few problems with the language herself, and she assumed he would rather speak properly.
“Very good,” he repeated, smiling at the short, stocky young woman with the baby at her ample breast. He liked her outspoken honesty and her outgoing nature that so easily overcame the shyness and reserve of others. He turned to his brother. “She’s right, Thonolan. This wine is very good. Even Mother would agree, and no one makes finer wine than Marthona. I think she would approve of Jetamio.” Jondalar suddenly wished he hadn’t said that. Thonolan would never take his mate to meet his mother; it was likely he would never see Marthona again.
“Jondalar, you should speak Sharamudoi No one else can understand when you speak in Zelandonii, and you’ll learn much faster if you make yourself speak it all the time,” Tholie said, leaning forward with concern. She felt she spoke from experience.
Jondalar was embarrassed, but he couldn’t be angry. Tholie was so sincere, and it had been impolite of him to speak in a language no one else could understand. He reddened, but smiled.
Tholie noted Jondalar’s discomfiture, and, though outspoken, she wasn’t insensitive. “Why don’t we learn each other’s language? We may forget our own if we don’t have someone else to talk to once in a while. Zelandonii has such a musical sound, I would love to learn it.” She smiled at Jondalar and Thonolan. “We’ll spend a little time at it every day,” she stated as though everyone obviously agreed.
“Tholie, you may want to learn Zelandonii, but they may not want to learn Mamutoi,” Markeno said. “Did you think of that?”
It was her turn to blush. “No, I didn’t,” she said, with both surprise and chagrin, realizing her presumption.
“Well, I want to learn Mamutoi and Zelandonii I think it’s a good idea,” Jetamio said firmly.
“I, too, think good idea, Tholie,” Jondalar said.
“What a mixture we’re bringing together. The Ramudoi half is part Mamutoi, and the Shamudoi half is going to be part Zelandonii,” Markeno said, smiling tenderly at his mate.
The affection between the two was evident. They make a good match, Jondalar thought, though he couldn’t help but smile. Markeno was as tall as he, though not as muscular, and when they were together, the sharp contrast emphasized each other’s physical traits: Tholie seemed shorter and rounder, Markeno taller and thinner.
“Can someone else join you?” Serenio asked. “I would find it interesting to learn Zelandonii, and I think Darvo might find Mamutoi useful if he wants to go on trading journeys sometime.”
“Why not?” Thonolan laughed. “East or west, if you make a Journey, knowing the language helps.” He looked at his brother. “But if you don’t know it, it doesn’t stop you from understanding a beautiful woman, does it, Jondalar? Especially if you have big blue eyes,” he said in Zelandonii, grinning.
Jondalar smiled at his brother’s gibe. “Should speak Sharamudoi, Thonolan,” he said with a wink at Tholie. He speared a vegetable out of his wooden bowl with his eating knife, still finding it not quite natural to use his left hand for the purpose, though that was the custom of the Sharamudoi. “What is named this?” he asked her. “In Zelandonii is called ‘mushroom.’ ”
Tholie told him the word for the shaggy cap mushroom in her language and in Sharamudoi. Then he speared a green stalk and held it up questioningly.
“That’s the stem of young burdock,” Jetamio said, and then realized the word itself would mean little to him. She got up and went to the refuse pile near the cooking area and brought back some wilted but still recognizable leaves. “Burdock,” she said, showing him the large, downy, gray-green leaf parts that had been torn from the stem. He nodded his head with undemanding. Then she held out a long, broad, green leaf with an unmistakable odor.
“That’s it! I knew it was some familiar flavor,” he said to his brother. “I didn’t know garlic grew in leaf like that.” Then back to Jetamio, “What is name?”
“Ransoms,” she said. Tholie had no Mamutoi name for it, but she did for the piece of dried leaf Jetamio next held out.
“Seaweed,” she said. “I brought that with me. It grows in the sea, and it thickens the stew.” She tried to explain but wasn’t sure if she was understood. The ingredient had been added to the traditional dish because of her close relationship to the new couple, and because it imparted an interesting taste and texture. “There is not much left. It was part of my bride gift,” Tholie braced the baby over her shoulder and patted her back. “Have you made your gift to the Blessing Tree yet, Tamio?”
Jetamio lowered her head, smiling demurely. It was a question not usually asked outr
ight, but only mildly meddlesome. “I’m hoping the Mother will bless my mating with a baby as healthy and happy as yours, Tholie. Is Shamio through nursing?”
“She just likes to suck for comfort. She’d hang on all day if I let her. Would you like to hold her? I need to go outside.”
When Tholie returned, the focus of conversation had shifted. Food had been cleared out of the way, more wine served, and someone was practicing rhythms on a single-skin drum and improvising words to a song. When she took her infant back, Thonolan and Jetamio stood up and tried to edge their way out. Suddenly several people with broad grins ringed them.
It was usual for the couple about to be mated to leave the feast early to find some last moments alone together before their pre-Matrimonial separation. But since they were the guests of honor, they could not politely take their leave as long as anyone was talking to them. They must try to sneak away in the moment when no one would notice, but of course, everyone knew it. It became a game, and they were expected to play their parts—making dashes to get away while everyone pretended to look aside, and then making polite excuses when they were caught. After some teasing and joking, they would be allowed to go.
“You’re not in a hurry to leave, are you?” Thonolan was asked.
“It get late,” Thonolan evaded, grinning.
“It’s early yet. Have another helping, Tamio.”
“I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“A cup of wine then. Thonolan, you wouldn’t turn down a cup of Tamio’s wonderful bilberry wine, would you?”
“Well … little.”
“Little more for you, Tamio?”
She edged closer to Thonolan and made a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder. “Just a sip, but someone will have to get our cups. They’re over there.”