by Jean M. Auel
A straining grunt brought his attention back to the flathead. He saw, on the beach, that the sturgeon had been split in half lengthwise, from the backbone to the belly, and the young male had moved half the huge fish to a large leather hide spread out beside it. While the tall man watched, the young flathead gathered up the ends of the hide and slung the entire load on his back. Then, with the half of the head and tail sticking out the top of the huge sack, he disappeared into the woods.
“Wait!” Jondalar called, running after him. He caught up as they reached the glade. The female, with a large basket on her back, slid into the shadows as he approached. There was no evidence that the glade had been used, not even a trace of the fire. If he hadn’t felt its heat, he would have doubted it had ever been there.
He took the wolf fur from his shoulders and held it out. At a grunt from the male, she took it, then both moved silently into the woods and were gone.
Jondalar felt chilled in his damp clothes as he walked back to the river. He reached it as the boat was pulling in, and he smiled as his brother climbed out. They threw their arms around each other in a great bear hug of brotherly affection.
“Thonolan! Am I happy to see you! I was afraid that when they found that empty boat I’d be given up for lost.”
“Big Brother, how many rivers have we crossed together? Don’t you think I know you can swim? Once we found the boat, we knew you were upriver and couldn’t be much farther ahead.”
“Who took half this fish?” Dolando asked.
“I gave it away.”
“Gave it away! Who did you give it to?” Markeno asked.
“Who could you give it to?” Carolio added.
“To a flathead.”
“A flathead?!” many voices echoed in response. “Why would you give half a fish that size to a flathead?” Dolando asked.
“He helped me, and he asked for it.”
“What kind of nonsense is that? How could a flathead ask for anything?” Dolando said. He was angry, which surprised Jondalar. The leader of the Sharamudoi seldom showed his ire. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone by now, into the woods. I was soaked, and shivering so badly that I thought I’d never warm up. Then this young flathead appeared and led me to his fire.…”
“Fire? Since when do they use fire?” Thonolan asked.
“I’ve seen flatheads with fire,” Barono said.
“I’ve seen them on this side of the river before, too … from a distance,” Carolio remarked.
“I didn’t know they were back. How many were there?” Dolando asked.
“Just the young one, and an older female. Maybe his dam,” Jondalar replied.
“There’s more, if they have their females with them.” The stocky leader glanced around the woods. “Maybe we should get up a flathead hunting party and clean the vennin out.”
There was ugly menace in Dolando’s tone that made Jondalar look twice. He’d picked up shades of that feeling toward flatheads in the leader’s comments before, but never with such venom.
Leadership among the Sharamudoi was a matter of competence and persuasion. Dolando was tacitly acknowledged leader not because he was the best in every way, but because he was competent, and he had the ability to attract people to him and handle problems when they arose. He did not command; he cajoled, coaxed, convinced, and compromised, and in general provided the oil that smoothed the inevitable friction of people living together. He was politically astute, effective, and his decisions were usually accepted, but no one was required to abide by them. Arguments could be vociferous.
He was confident enough to push his own judgment when he felt it was right, and to defer to someone with greater knowledge or experience on a particular subject if the need arose. He tended not to interfere in personal squabbles unless they got out of hand and someone called him in. Though generally dispassionate, his ire could be raised by cruelty, stupidity, or carelessness that threatened or caused harm to the Cave as a whole, or to someone unable to defend himself. And by flatheads. He hated them. To him, they were not just animals, they were dangerous, vicious animals that should be eliminated.
“I was freezing,” Jondalar objected, “and that young flathead helped me. He brought me to his fire, and they gave me a fur to use. As far as I’m concerned, he could have had the whole fish, but he only took half. I’m not about to go out on any flathead-hunting party.”
“They don’t usually cause that much trouble,” Barono said. “But if they’re around, I’m glad to know it. They’re smart. It’s not a good idea to let a pack catch you by surprise …”
“They’re murderous brutes …” Dolando said.
Barono ignored the interjection. “You’re probably lucky it was a younger one and a female. The females don’t fight.”
Thonolan didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. “How are we going to get this splendid half-catch of my brother’s home?” He remembered the ride the fish had given Jondalar, and a grin cracked his face. “After the fight he gave you, I’m surprised you let half of him get away.”
The laughter spread to the others, with nervous relief.
“Does that mean he’s half Ramudoi, now?” Markeno said.
“Maybe we can take him hunting and he’ll get half a chamois,” Thonolan said. “Then the other half can be Shamudoi.”
“Which half will Serenio want?” Barono winked.
“Half of him is more than most,” Carolio quipped, and her expression left no doubt that she was not referring to his height. In the close quarters of the Cave, his skill in the furs had not gone unnoticed. Jondalar flushed, but the ribald laughter brought a final release of tension, both from the concern over him and from Dolando’s reaction to the flatheads.
They brought out a net made of fiber which held up well when wet, spread it out beside the bleeding open half of the sturgeon, and, with some grunting and straining, moved the carcass onto the net and into the water, then tied it to the stern of the boat.
While the rest were struggling with the fish, Carolio turned to Jondalar and said, quietly, “Roshario’s son was killed by flatheads. He was just a young man, not yet Promised, full of fun and daring, and Dolando’s pride. No one knows how it happened, but Dolando had the whole Cave out hunting them. A few were killed—then they disappeared. He didn’t much care for them in the first place, but since then …”
Jondalar nodded, understanding.
“How did that flathead haul his half of this fish away?”
Thonolan asked as they were getting into the boat.
“He picked it up and carried it,” Jondalar said.
“He? He picked it up and carried it?”
“By himself. And he wasn’t even full grown.”
Thonolan approached the wooden structure shared by his brother, Serenio, and Darvo. It was constructed of planks which were leaned against a ridgepole that itself sloped to the ground. The dwelling resembled a tent made of wood, with the triangular front wall higher and wider than the rear one, making trapezoids of the sides. The planks were fastened together like the strakes on the sides of the boats, with the slightly thicker edge overlapping the thinner edge and sewn together.
These were snug, sturdy structures, tight enough so that only in the older ones could light be seen through the cracks of the dried and warped wood. With the sandstone overhang to protect them from the worst elements of the weather, the dwellings were not maintained or caulked the way the boats were. They were lighted inside primarily by the stone-lined fireplace, or by opening the front.
The younger man looked in to see if his brother was still sleeping.
“Come on in,” Jondalar said, sniffling. He was sitting up on the fur-covered sleeping platform, with more furs piled around him and with a cup of something steaming in his hands.
“How’s your cold?” Thonolan asked, sitting on the edge of the platform.
“Cold’s worse, I’m better.”
“No one thought about your wet clo
thes, and that wind was really blowing down the river gorge by the time we got back.”
“I’m glad you found me.”
“Well, I’m really glad you’re feeling better” Thonolan seemed strangely at a loss for words. He fidgeted, got up and walked toward the opening, then walked back to his brother. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Jondalar shook his head and waited. Something was bothering his brother, and he was trying to get it out. He just needed time.
“Jondalar …” Thonolan started, then paused. “You’ve been living with Serenio and her son for a long time now.” For a moment, Jondalar thought he was going to make some reference to the unformalized status of the relationship, but he was wrong. “How does it feel to be man of your hearth?”
“You’re a mated man, a man of your hearth.”
“I know, but does it make any difference to have a child of your hearth? Jetamio’s been trying so hard to have a baby, and now … she lost another one, Jondalar.”
“I’m sorry …”
“I don’t care if she ever has a baby. I just don’t want to lose her,” Thonolan cried, his voice cracking. “I wish she’d stop trying.”
“I don’t think she has a choice. The Mother gives …”
“Then why won’t the Mother let her keep one!” Thonolan shouted, brushing past Serenio as he ran out.
“He told you about Jetamio … ?” Serenio asked. Jondalar nodded. “She held this one longer, but it was harder on her when she lost it. I’m glad she’s so happy with Thonolan. She deserves that much.”
“Will she be all right?”
“It’s not the first time a woman has lost a baby, Jondalar. Don’t worry about her—she’ll be fine. I see you found the tea. It’s peppermint, borage, and lavender, in case you were trying to guess. Shamud said it would help your cold. How are you feeling? I just came to see if you were awake yet.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He smiled and tried to look healthy.
“Then I think I’ll go back and sit with Jetamio.”
When she left, he put the cup aside and lay down again. His nose was stuffed and his head ached. He couldn’t exactly say what it was, but Serenio’s answer disturbed him. He didn’t want to think about it anymore—it gave him another ache deep in the pit of his stomach. It must be this cold, he thought.
16
Spring ripened into summer, and the fruits of the earth with it. As they matured, the young woman gathered them. It was habit more than need. She could have spared herself the effort. She already had abundance; there was food left over from the preceding year. But Ayla had no use for leisure time. She had no way to fill it.
Even with the additional activity of winter hunting, she hadn’t been able to keep herself busy enough, though she had cured the hide of nearly every animal they killed, sometimes making furs, other times dehairing to make leather. She had continued making baskets, mats, and carved bowls, and had accumulated enough tools, implements, and cave furnishings to satisfy a clan. She had looked forward to the summer’s food-gathering activities.
She had also looked forward to summer hunting and discovered that the method she had developed with Baby—with some adaptation to accommodate her lack of a horse—was still effective. The lion’s increasing skill made up the difference. If she had wished, she could have refrained from hunting. She not only had dried meat left over, but when Baby hunted alone successfully—which was more often the case than not—she didn’t hesitate to take a share of his kill. There was a unique relationship between the woman and the lion. She was mother, and therefore dominant; she was hunting partner, and therefore equal; and he was all she had to love.
Watching the wild lions, Ayla made some astute observations about their hunting habits, which Baby confirmed. Cave lions were nocturnal stalkers during the warm season, diurnal during the winter. Although he shed in spring, Baby still had a thick coat, and during the heat of a summer day, it was too hot to hunt. The energy expended during the chase made him too warm. Baby wanted nothing more than to sleep, preferably in the cool dark recesses of the cave. In winter, when winds howled off the northern glacier, nighttime temperatures dropped to a cold that could kill, despite a new heavy coat. Then, cave lions were happy to curl up in a windless cave. They were carnivores and adaptable. Thickness and coloration of coat could adapt with the climate, hunting habits with conditions, as long as there was sufficient prey.
She made one decision the morning after Whinney left, when she awoke and found Baby sleeping beside her with the carcass of a dappled fawn—the young of a giant deer. She would leave, there was no question in her mind about that, but not that summer. The young lion still needed her; he was too young to be left alone. No wild pride would accept him; the pride male would kill him. Until he was old enough to mate and start his own pride, he needed the security of her cave as much as she did.
Iza had told her to look for her own kind, to find her own mate, and she would, someday, continue her search. But she was relieved that she didn’t have to give up her freedom yet, for the company of people with unfamiliar ways. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she had a deeper reason. She didn’t want to leave until she was sure Whinney would not return. She missed the horse desperately. Whinney had been with her from the beginning, and Ayla loved her.
“Come on, you lazy thing,” Ayla said. “Let’s go for a walk and see if we can find anything to hunt. You didn’t go out last night.” She prodded the lion, then went out of the cave, signaling to him to follow. He lifted his head, made a huge yawn that exposed his sharp teeth, then got up and padded after her, reluctantly. Baby was no more hungry than she was, and would much rather have slept.
She had collected medicinal plants the day before, a task she enjoyed—and one filled with pleasant associations. During her young years with the Clan, gathering medicines for Iza had given her a chance to get away from the ever-watchful eyes that were so quick to disapprove of improper actions. It gave her a little breathing space to follow her natural inclinations. Later, she collected the plants for the joy of learning the medicine woman’s skills, and the knowledge was now part of her nature.
To her, the medicinal properties were so closely associated with each plant that she distinguished them as much by use as by appearance. The bunches of agrimony hanging head downward inside the warm dark cave were an infusion of the dried flowers and leaves useful for bruises and injuries to internal organs, as much as they were tall slender perennials with toothed leaves and tiny yellow flowers growing on tapering spikes.
Coltsfoot leaves, which resembled their name, spread out on woven drying racks, were asthma relief when smoke from the burning dried leaves was breathed, and a cough remedy with other ingredients in tea, and a pleasant seasoning for food. Bone mending and wound healing came to mind when she saw the large downy comfrey leaves beside the roots drying outside in the sun, and the colorful marigolds were healing for open wounds, ulcers, and skin sores. Chamomile was an aid to digestion and a mild wash for wounds, and the wild rose petals floating in a bowl of water in the sun were a fragrant astringent skin lotion.
She had gathered them to replace with fresh material herbs that had not been used. Though she had very little need for the full pharmacopoeia she maintained, she enjoyed it, and it kept her skills sharp. But with leaves, flowers, roots, and barks in various stages of preparation spread out everywhere, there was no point in gathering more—there was no room for them. She had nothing to do just then and she was bored.
She strolled down to the beach, then around the jutting wall and along the brush that bordered the stream, with the huge cave lion padding beside her. As he walked, he grunted the hnga, hnga sound that Ayla had learned was his normal speaking voice. Other lions made similar sounds, but each was distinctive, and she could recognize Baby’s voice from a long way off, just as she could identify his roar. It started deep in his chest with a series of grunts, then rose to a sonorous thunder at its full bass range that made her ears ring if she was
too close.
When she came to a boulder that was a usual resting place, she stopped—not really interested in hunting, but not sure what she wanted to do. Baby pushed against her, looking for attention. She scratched around his ears and deep in his mane. His coat was a shade darker than it had been in winter, though still beige, but his mane had grown in rufous, a deep rusty tan not far from the color of red ochre. He lifted his head so she could get under his chin, making a low rumbling growl of contentment. She reached to scratch the other side, then looked at him with new awareness. The level of his back reached just below her shoulder. He was nearly the height of Whinney but much more massive. She hadn’t realized he’d gotten so big.
The cave lion that roamed the steppes of that cold land broached by glaciers lived in an environment ideal for the style of hunting to which he was best suited. It was a continent of grassland crowded with a great abundance and variety of prey. Many of the animals were huge—bison and cattle half again as large as their later counterparts; giant deer with eleven-foot racks; woolly mammoth and woolly rhinoceros. Conditions were favorable for at least one species of carnivore to develop to a size capable of hunting such large animals. The cave lion filled that niche, and filled it admirably. The lions of later generations were half the size, puny by comparison; the cave lion was the largest feline that ever lived.
Baby was a superior example of that supreme predator—huge, powerful, his coat sleek with youthful health and vigor—and totally complaisant under the delightful scratching of the young woman. She would have been defenseless had he chosen to attack, yet she didn’t think of him as dangerons; he was no more menacing than an overgrown kitten—and that was her defense.
Her control over him was unconscious, and he accepted it on those terms. Lifting and moving his head aside to show her where, Baby submitted to the sensuous ecstasy of her scratching, and she was enjoying it because he did. She stepped up on the boulder to reach over to his other side and was leaning over his back when another thought occurred to her. She didn’t even stop to consider it; she simply put her leg over and straddled his back as she had done so often with Whinney.