by Jean M. Auel
Iza had explained then that her line had the highest status because they were the best; each mother had passed on to her daughter what she knew and learned, and she had been trained by Iza. Iza had given her all the knowledge she could, perhaps not all she knew, but enough, because Ayla had something else. A gift, Iza had said. “You don’t have the memories, child, but you have a way of thinking, a way of understanding … and a way of knowing how to help.”
If only I could think of a way to help this man now, Ayla thought. Then she noticed the pile of clothing she had cut off the man, and something occurred to her. She let go of his leg and picked up the garment that had covered the lower part of his body. Pieces had been cut, and then joined together with fine cord; a cord made of sinew. She examined the way they were attached, pulling them apart. The cord was put through a hole on one side, and then through a hole on the other, and pulled together.
She did something similar to shape dishes of birchbark, piercing holes and tying the ends together with a knot. Could she do something like that to hold the man’s leg closed? To hold the gash until it healed together?
Quickly, she got up and brought back what appeared to be a brown stick. It was a long section of deer tendon, dried and hard. With a round smooth rock, Ayla rapidly pounded the dried tendon, breaking it down to long strands of white collagen fibers. She pulled it apart, then worked out a fine strand of the tough connective tissue and dipped it in the marigold solution. Like leather, sinew was flexible when wet, and if untreated it stiffened as it dried. When she had several pieces ready, she looked over her knives and borers, trying to find the best one with which to cut small holes in the man’s flesh. Then she remembered the packet of slivers she had gotten from the tree struck by lightning. Iza had used such slivers to pierce boils, blisters, and swellings that needed to be drained. They would work for her purpose.
She washed away seeping blood but wasn’t quite sure how to begin. When she jabbed a hole with one of the slivers, the man moved and mumbled. She was going to have to do this quickly. She threaded the stiffened piece of sinew through the hole made with the sliver, then through the hole opposite, then carefully pulled them together and tied a knot.
She decided not to make too many knots, since she wasn’t sure about pulling them out later. She finished four knots along the gash and added three more to hold the torn muscle in place. When she was through, she smiled at the knots of sinew holding a man’s flesh together, but it had worked. The gash no longer gaped, the muscle stayed in place. If the injury healed clean without festering, he might have good use of his leg. At least the chances of it were much better.
She made a poultice of the comfrey root and wrapped the leg in soft leather. Then she carefully washed the rest of the scratches and gashes, mostly around his right shoulder and chest. The lump on his head bothered her, but the skin was not broken—it was just swollen. In fresh water, she made an infusion of arnica flowers, then made a wet compress for the swelling and tied it on with a leather strip.
Only then did she sit back on her heels. When he woke, there were medicines she could give him, but for now, she had treated everything she could treat. She straightened a minute wrinkle in the leather wrappings on his leg, and then, for the first time, Ayla really looked at him.
He was not as robust as men of the Clan, but muscular, and his legs were incredibly long. The golden hair, curled on his chest, became a downy halo on his arms. His skin was pale. His body hair was lighter and finer than that of men she had known; he was longer and leaner, but not much different. His flaccid maleness rested on soft golden curls. She reached out to feel the texture, then held back. She noticed a fresh scar and not quite faded bruise on his ribs. He must have recovered from a previous injury only recently.
Who had taken care of him? And where had he come from?
She leaned closer to see his face. It was flat in comparison with the faces of Clan men. His mouth, relaxed, was full-lipped, but his jaws did not protrude as much. He had a strong chin, with a cleft. She touched hers, and remembered that her son had one, but no one else in the Clan did. The shape of this man’s nose was not much different from Clan noses—high-bridged, narrow—but it was smaller. His closed eyes were wide spaced and seemed prominent; then she realized he had no heavy brow ridges to shadow them. His forehead, creased with the slight indentation of worry wrinkles, was straight and high. To her eyes, conditioned to seeing only people of the Clan, his forehead seemed to bulge. She laid her hand on his brow, then felt her own. They were the same. How strange she must have looked to the Clan.
His hair was long and straight—part of it still held by a thong in back, but most a tangled mass—and yellow. Like hers, she thought, but lighter. Familiar somehow. Then, with a shock of recognition, she remembered. Her dream! Her dream about a man of the Others. She couldn’t see his face, but his hair had been yellow!
She covered the man, then quickly walked out to the ledge, surprised that it was still daytime, early afternoon by the sun. So much had happened, and so much concentrated mental, physical, and emotional energy had been expended with such intensity, that it seemed it should have been much later. She tried to sort out her thoughts, put them in some kind of order, but they caromed in confusion.
Why had she decided to ride west that day? Why should she have been right there just when he screamed? And, of all the cave lions on the steppes, how did it happen that the one she found in the canyon was Baby? Her totem must have led her there. What about her dream of the man with yellow hair? Was this the man? Why was he brought here? She wasn’t sure what significance he would have in her life, but she knew it would never be the same. She had seen the face of the Others.
She felt Whinney nuzzle her hand from behind, and she turned. The horse put her head over the woman’s shoulder, and Ayla reached up and put both arms around Whinney’s neck, then laid her head on it. She stood there clinging to the animal, hanging on to her familiar, comfortable way of life, a bit fearful of the future. Then she stroked the mare, patting and caressing, and felt the movement of the young she was carrying.
“It can’t be much longer, Whinney. I’m glad you helped me bring the man back, though. I would never have been able to carry him here alone.”
I’d better go back in and make sure he’s all right, she thought, nervous that something might happen to him if she left him alone for even a moment. He hadn’t moved, but she stayed beside him, watching him breathe, unable to take her eyes away. Then, she noticed an anomaly: he had no beard! All the men of the Clan had beards, bushy brown beards. Did men of the Others have no beards?
She touched his jaw and felt the rough stubble of new growth. He had some beard, but it was so short. She shook her head, perplexed. He looked so young. For all that he was big and muscular, he suddenly seemed more boy than man.
He turned his head, moaned, and muttered something. His words were unintelligible, yet there was a quality to them that made her feel she ought to be able to understand them. She put her hand on his forehead and then his cheek, and she felt the growing warmth of fever. I’d better see if I can get him to take some willowbark, she thought, getting up again.
She looked over her stock of medicinal herbs while she was getting the willowbark. She hadn’t stopped to question why she maintained a complete pharmacopoeia when she had no one to treat but herself. It had just been habit. Now she was glad. There were many plants she had not found in the valley or on the steppes that had been readily available near the cave, but what she had was sufficient, and she was adding some that were unfamiliar farther south. Iza had taught her how to test unknown vegetation, on herself, for food and medicine, but she wasn’t completely satisfied with any new additions yet, not enough to use them on the man.
Besides the willowbark, she took down a plant whose uses she knew well. The hairy stem, rather than having leaves attached to it, seemed to be growing out of the middle of wide double-pointed leaves. When she picked it, there were clusters of white flowers that
were now a withered brown. It was so similar to agrimony that she thought of it as a variation of that herb—but one of the other medicine women at the Clan Gathering had called it boneset, and used it for that purpose. Ayla used it to reduce fever, but it had to be boiled down to a thick syrup which took time. It brought on a profuse sweat, but it was strong and she didn’t want to use it on the man—weakened by loss of blood—unless she had to. It was best to be prepared, though.
Alfalfa leaves came to mind. Fresh alfalfa leaves steeped in hot water to help the blood clot. She had seen some in the field. And a good meaty broth to give him strength. The medicine woman in her was thinking again, pushing back the confusion she had felt earlier. From the beginning, she had held on to one thought, and it was growing stronger: This man must live.
She managed to get him to swallow some willowbark tea, cradling his head in her lap. His eyes fluttered, and he mumbled but remained unconscious. His scratches and gashes had developed a warmth and a redness, and his leg was visibly swelling. She replaced the poultice and made a new compress for his head injury. At least there the swelling was down. As evening came on, her worry grew, and she wished Creb were there to call upon the spirits to help her as he used to do for Iza.
By the time it was dark, the man was tossing and thrashing, calling out words. One in particular he used over and over again, mixed in with sounds that had the urgency of warning. She thought it might be a name, perhaps the name of the other man. With a deer rib bone whose end she had hollowed out to make a small depression, she fed him the agrimony concentration in small sips sometime near midnight. While fighting the bitter taste, his eyes flew open, but there was no recognition within their dark depths. It was easier to get him to take the datura tea afterward—as though he wanted to wash his mouth of the other bitter taste. She was glad she had found the pain-relieving and sleep-inducing datura near the valley.
She kept a vigil all night, hoping the fever would break, but it was near morning before the peak was reached. After she washed his perspiration-soaked body with cool water and changed his bed coverings and dressings, he slept more quietly. She dozed then on a fur beside him.
Suddenly, she was staring toward the bright sunshine coming in through the opening, wondering why she was wide awake. She rolled over, saw the man, and the entire previous day flashed in her mind. The man seemed relaxed and sleeping normally. She lay still and listened, then heard Whinney’s heavy breathing. She got up quickly and went to the other side of the cave.
“Whinney,” she said with excitement, “is it tune?” The mare didn’t have to answer.
Ayla had helped deliver babies before, had given birth to one of her own, but it was a new experience to help the horse. Whinney knew what to do, but she seemed to welcome Ayla’s comforting presence. It was only toward the end, with the foal partially delivered, that Ayla helped pull him out the rest of the way. She smiled with pleasure when Whinney started licking the brown fuzzy fur of her newborn colt.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone midwife a horse,” Jondalar said.
Ayla spun around at the sound and looked at the man propped up on one elbow, watching her.
20
Ayla stared at the man. She couldn’t help herself, though she knew it was discourteous. It was one thing to observe him while he was unconscious or sleeping, but to see him wide awake made an altogether unexpected difference. He had blue eyes!
She knew her eyes were blue: it was one of the differences she had been reminded of often enough, and she had seen them in the reflection of the pool. But the eyes of the people of the Clan were brown. She had never seen another person with blue eyes, particularly blue of such a vivid shade that she could hardly believe it was real.
She was held by those blue eyes; she could not seem to move until she discovered she was shaking. Then she realized she had been looking directly at the man, and she felt the blood rise to her face as she tore her eyes away in embarrassment. It was not only impolite to stare, a woman was never supposed to look directly at a man, especially a stranger.
Ayla looked down at the ground, struggling to regain her composure. What must he think of me! But it had been so long since she had been around anyone, and this was the first time she could remember seeing one of the Others. She wanted to look at him. She wanted to fill her eyes, to drink in the sight of another human being, and one so unusual. But it was also important to her that he think well of her. She did not want to start out wrong because of her improper curious actions.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said, wondering if he had offended her or if she was just shy. When she didn’t respond, he smiled wryly and realized he had been talking in Zelandonii. He switched to Mamutoi, and, when that elicited no answer, tried Sharamudoi.
She had been watching him with furtive glances, the way women did when they were waiting for a man’s signal to approach. But he made no gestures, at least none she could understand. He just made words. Only none of the words were anything like the sounds people of the Clan made. They weren’t guttural and distinct syllables; they flowed together. She couldn’t even tell where one stopped and the other started. His voice made a pleasant, deep, rumbling tone, but it frustrated her. She felt at some basic level that she ought to understand him, and she could not.
She kept waiting for him to signal, until the waiting became embarrassing. Then she recalled, from her early days with the Clan, that Creb had had to teach her to talk properly. He had told her she only knew how to make sounds, and he had wondered if the Others communicated that way. But didn’t this man know any signs? Finally, when she realized he wasn’t going to signal, she knew she had to find some other way to communicate with him, if only to make sure he took the medicine she had prepared for him.
Jondalar was at a loss. Nothing he had said evoked any response from her at all He wondered if she was unable to hear, then remembered how quickly she had turned to look at him the first time he spoke. What a strange woman, he thought, feeling uncomfortable. I wonder where the rest of her people are. He glanced around the small cave, saw the hay-colored foal and her bay colt, and was struck by another thought. What was that horse doing in a cave? And why did it allow a woman to midwife? He’d never seen a horse give birth before, not even out on the plains. Did the woman have some kind of special powers?
This whole thing was beginning to have the unreal quality of a dream, yet he didn’t think he was sleeping. Maybe it’s worse. Maybe she’s a donii who’s come for you, Jondalar, he thought with a shudder, not at all sure she was a benevolent spirit … if she was a spirit. He was relieved when she moved, if rather hesitantly, toward the fire.
Her manner was diffident. She moved as though she did not want him to see her; she reminded him of … something. Her clothing was rather odd, too. It seemed to be nothing more than a leather hide wrapped around her and tied with a thong. Where had he seen something like that before? He couldn’t recall.
She had done something interesting with her hair. It was separated into orderly sections all over her head and braided. He had seen braided hair before, though never worn in a style quite like hers. It was not unattractive but unusual. He had thought she was rather pretty the first time he had looked at her. She’d seemed young—there was an innocence in her eyes—but as closely as he could tell with such a shapeless wrap, she had a mature woman’s body. She seemed to be avoiding his inquiring gaze. Why? he wondered. He was beginning to be intrigued—she was a strange enigma.
He didn’t notice he was hungry until he smelled the rich broth she brought him. He tried to sit up, and the deep pain in his right leg made him aware that he had other injuries as well. He hurt, all over. Then, for the first time, he wondered where he was and how he had gotten there. Suddenly he remembered Thonolan going into the canyon … the roar … and the most gigantic cave lion he had ever seen.
“Thonolan!” he cried, looking around the cave in panic. “Where’s Thonolan?” There was no one else i
n the cave except the woman. His stomach churned. He knew, but he did not want to believe. Maybe Thonolan was in some other cave nearby. Maybe someone else was taking care of him. “Where’s my brother? Where’s Thonolan?!”
That word sounded familiar to Ayla. It was the one he had repeated so often when he called out with alarm from the depths of his dreams. She guessed he was asking for his companion, and she put her head down to show respect for the young man who was dead.
“Where’s my brother, woman?” Jondalar shouted, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Where is Thonolan?”
Ayla was shocked by his outburst. The loudness of his voice, the anger, the frustration, the uncontrolled emotions she could hear in his tone and see in his actions, all disturbed her. Men of the Clan would never have displayed their emotions so openly. They might feel as strongly, but manliness was measured by self-control.
There was grief in his eyes, though, and she could read from the tension in his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw that he was fighting the truth he knew but did not want to accept. The people she had grown up among communicated by more than simple hand signs and gestures. Stance, posture, expression, all gave shades of meaning that were part of the vocabulary. The flexion of a muscle could reveal a nuance. Ayla was accustomed to reading the language of the body, and the loss of a loved one was a universal affliction.
Her eyes, too, conveyed her feelings, told of her sorrow, her sympathy. She shook her head and bowed it again. He could no longer deny to himself what he knew. He let go of her, and his shoulders slumped with acquiescence.
“Thonolan … Thonolan … why did you have to keep on going? O Doni, why? Why did you take my brother,” he called out, his voice tight and strained. He tried to resist the crush of desolation, giving in to his pain, but he had never known such profound despair. “Why did you have to take him and leave me with no one? You knew he was the only person I ever … loved. Great Mother … He was my brother … Thonolan … Thonolan…”