by Jean M. Auel
In spring the meager snow that fell on the land melted, and the crust of the glacier warmed, seeping down and out across the steppes. The meltwater softened the soil enough, above the permafrost, for shallow rooting grasses and herbs to sprout. The grass grew rapidly, knowing in the heart of its seed that life would be short. By the middle of summer, it was dry standing hay, an entire continent of grassland, with scattered pockets of boreal forest and tundra nearer the oceans.
In the regions near the borders of the ice, where the snow cover was light, the grass supplied fodder the year around for uncountable millions of grazing and seed-eating animals who had adapted to the glacial cold – and to predators who can adapt to any climate that supports their prey. A mammoth could graze at the foot of a gleaming, blue-white wall of ice soaring a mile or more above it.
The seasonal streams and rivers fed by glacial melt cut through the deep loess, and often through the sedimentary rock to the crystalline granite platform underlying the continent. Steep ravines and river gorges were common in the open landscape, but rivers provided moisture and gorges shelter from the wind. Even in the arid loess steppes, green valleys existed.
The season warmed, and, as one day followed the next, Ayla grew tired of traveling, tired of the monotony of the steppes, tired of the unrelenting sun and incessant wind. Her skin roughened, cracked, and peeled. Her lips were chapped, her eyes sore, her throat always full of grit. She came across an occasional river valley, greener and more wooded than the steppes, but none tempted her to stay, and all were empty of human life.
Though skies were usually clear, her fruitless search cast a shadow of fear and worry. Winter always ruled the land. On the hottest day of summer, the harsh glacial cold was never far from thought. Food had to be stockpiled and protection found to survive the long bitter season. She had been wandering since early spring and was beginning to wonder if she were doomed to roam the steppes forever – or die after all.
She made a dry camp at the end of another day that was so like the days that had gone before it. She had made a kill, but her coal was dead, and wood was getting more scarce. She ate a few bites raw rather than bothering with a fire, but she had no appetite. She threw the marmot aside, although game seemed more scarce too – or she wasn't keeping as sharp an eye out for it. Gathering was more difficult as well. The ground was hard-packed and matted with old growth. And there was always the wind.
She slept poorly, troubled by bad dreams, and awoke unrested. She had nothing to eat; even her discarded marmot was gone. She took a drink – stale and flat – packed her carrying basket, and started north.
Around noon she found a streambed with a few drying pools of water, which tasted slightly acrid, but she filled her waterbag. She dug up some cattail roots; they were stringy and bland, but she chewed on them as she plodded. She didn't want to go on, but she didn't know what else to do. Dispirited and apathetic, she wasn't paying much attention to where she was going. She didn't notice the pride of cave lions basking in the afternoon sun until one roared a warning.
Fear charged through her, tingling her into awareness. She backed up and turned west to skirt the lions' territory. She had traveled north far enough. It was the spirit of the Cave Lion that protected her, not the great beast in his physical form. Just because he was her totem did not mean she was safe from attack.
In fact, that was how Creb knew her totem was the Cave Lion. She still bore four long parallel scars on her left thigh, and had a recurring nightmare of a gigantic claw reaching into a tiny cave where she had run to hide when she was a child of five. She had dreamed about that claw the night before, she recalled. Creb had told her she had been tested to see if she was worthy, and marked to show she had been chosen. Absently, she reached down and felt the scars on her leg. I wonder why the Cave Lion would choose me, she thought.
The sun was blinding as it sank low in the western sky. Ayla had been hiking up a long incline, looking for a place to make camp. Dry camp, again, she thought, and was glad she had filled her waterbag. But she would have to find more water soon. She was tired and hungry, and upset that she had allowed herself to get so close to the cave lions.
Was it a sign? Was it just a matter of time? What made her think she could escape a death curse?
The glare on the horizon was so bright that she nearly missed the abrupt edge of the plateau. She shielded her eyes, stood on the lip, and looked down a ravine. There was a small river of sparkling water below, flanked on both sides by trees and brush. A gorge of rocky cliffs opened out into a cool, green, sheltered valley. Halfway down, in the middle of a field, the last long rays of the sun fell on a small herd of horses, grazing peacefully.
2
"Well then, why did you decide to go with me, Jondalar?" the brown-haired young man said, unstaking a tent made of several hides laced together. "You told Marona you were only going to visit Dalanar and show me the way. Just to make a short Journey before you settled down. You were supposed to go to the Summer Meeting with the Lanzadonii and be there in time for the Matrimonial. She is going to be furious, and that's one woman I wouldn't want angry at me. You sure you're not just running away from her?" Thonolan's tone was light, but the seriousness in his eyes gave him away.
"Little Brother, what makes you think you're the only one in this family with an urge to travel? You didn't think I was going to let you go off by yourself, did you? Then come home and brag about your long Journey? Someone has to go along to keep your stories straight, and keep you out of trouble," the tall blond man replied, then stooped to enter the tent.
Inside it was high enough to sit or kneel comfortably, but not to stand, and large enough for both their sleeping rolls and their gear. The tent was supported by three poles in a row down the center, and near the middle, taller pole was a hole with a flap that could be laced closed to keep out rain, or opened to let smoke escape if they wanted a fire in the tent. Jondalar pulled up the three poles and crawled back out of the opening with them.
"Keep me out of trouble!" Thonolan said. "I'm going to have to grow eyes in the back of my head to watch your rear! Wait until Marona finds out you're not with Dalanar and the Lanzadonii when they get to the Meeting. She might decide to turn herself into a donii and come flying over that glacier we just crossed to get you, Jondalar." They started folding up the tent between them. "That one has had her eye on you for a long time, and just when she thought she had you, you decide it's time to make a Journey. I think you just don't want to slip your hand in that thong and let Zelandoni tie the knot. I think my big brother is mating-shy." They put the tent beside the backframes. "Most men your age already have a little one, or two, at their hearths," Thonolan added, ducking a mock punch from his older brother; the laughter now had reached his gray eyes.
"Most men my age! I'm only three years older than you," Jondalar said, feigning anger. Then he laughed, a big hearty laugh, its uninhibited exuberance all the more surprising because it was unexpected.
The two brothers were as different as night and day, but it was the shorter dark-haired one who had the lighter heart. Thonolan's friendly nature, infectious grin, and easy laughter made him quickly welcome anywhere. Jondalar was more serious, his brow often knotted in concentration or worry, and though he smiled easily, especially at his brother, he seldom laughed out loud. When he did, the sheer abandon of it came as a surprise.
"And how do you know Marona won't already have a little one to bring to my hearth by the time we get back," Jondalar said, as they began rolling up the leather ground cloth, which could be used as a smaller shelter with one of the poles.
"And how do you know she won't decide my elusive brother isn't the only man worthy of her well-known charms? Marona really knows how to please a man – when she wants to. But that temper of hers… You're the only man who has ever been able to handle her, Jondalar, though Doni knows, there are plenty who would take her, temper and all." They were facing each other with the ground cloth between them. "Why haven't you mated her? Eve
ryone's been expecting it for years."
Thonolan's question was serious. Jondalar's vivid blue eyes grew troubled and his brow wrinkled. "Maybe just because everyone expects it," he said. "I don't know, Thonolan, to be honest, I expect to mate her, too. Who else would I mate?"
"Who? Oh, just anyone you wanted, Jondalar. There isn't an unmated woman in ail the Caves – end a few who are – who wouldn't jump at the chance to tie the knot with Jondalar of the Zelandonii, brother of Joharran, leader of the Ninth Cave, not to mention brother of Thonolan, dashing and courageous adventurer."
"You forgot son of Marthona, former leader of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, and brother of Folara, beautiful daughter of Marthona, or she will be when she grows up." Jondalar smiled. "If you're going to name my ties, don't forget the blessed of Doni."
"Who can forget them?" Thonolan asked, turning to the sleeping rolls, each made of two furs cut to fit each man and laced together around the sides and bottom, with a drawstring around the opening. "What are we talking about? I even think Joplaya would mate you, Jondalar."
They both started packing the rigid boxlike backframes that tapered outward toward the top. They were made of stiff rawhide attached to wooden slats and held on with leather shoulder straps made adjustable by a row of carved ivory buttons. The buttons were secured by threading a thong through a single center hole and knotting it in front to a second thong that passed back through the same hole and on to the next.
"You know we can't mate. Joplaya's my cousin. And you shouldn't take her seriously; she's a terrible tease. We became good friends when I went to live with Dalanar to learn my craft. He taught us both at the same time. She's one of the best flint knappers I know. But don't ever tell her I said so. She'd never let me forget it. We were always trying to outdo each other."
Jondalar hoisted a heavy pouch that contained his toolmaking implements and a few spare chunks of flint, thinking about Dalanar and the Cave he had founded. The Lanzadonii were growing. More people had joined them since he left, and families were expanding. There will be a Second Cave of the Lanzadonii soon, he thought. He put the pouch inside his backframe, then cooking utensils, food and other equipment. His sleeping roll and tent went on top, and two of the tent poles into a holder on the left side of his pack. Thonolan carried the ground cover and the third pole. In a special holder on the right sides of their backframes, they both carried several spears.
Thonolan was filling a waterbag with snow. It was made of an animal's stomach and covered with fur. When it was very cold, as it had been on the plateau glacier over the highland they had just crossed, they carried the waterbags inside their parkas next to the skin, so body heat could melt the snow. There was no fuel for fire on a glacier. They were over it now, but not yet at a low enough elevation to find free-flowing water.
"I'll tell you, Jondalar," Thonolan said, looking up. "I am glad Joplaya is not my cousin. I think I'd give up my Journey to mate that woman. You never told me she was so beautiful. I've never seen anyone like her, a man can't keep his eyes away from her. Makes me grateful I was born to Marthona after she mated Willomar, not while she was still Dalanar's mate. At least it gives me a chance."
"I guess she is beautiful at that. I haven't seen her for three years. I expected her to be mated by now. I'm glad Dalanar has decided to take the Lanzadonii to the Zelandonii Meeting this summer. With only one Cave, there are not many to choose from. It will give Joplaya a chance to meet some other men."
"Yes, and give Marona a little competition. I almost hate to miss it when those two meet. Marona is used to being the beauty of the bunch. She is going to hate Joplaya. And with you not showing up, I have a feeling Marona is not going to enjoy this year's Summer Meeting."
"You're right, Thonolan. She's going to be hurt, and angry, and I don't blame her. She has a temper, but she's a good woman. All she needs is a man good enough for her. And she does know how to please a man. When I'm with her, I'm all ready to tie the knot, but when she's not around… I don't know, Thonolan." Jondalar frowned as he pulled a belt around his parka after putting his waterbag inside.
"Tell me something," Thonolan asked, serious again. "How would you feel if she decided to mate someone else while we're gone? It's likely, you know."
Jondalar tied the belt on while he was thinking. "I'd be hurt, or my pride would – I'm not sure which. But I wouldn't blame her. I think she deserves someone better than me, someone who wouldn't leave her to go off on a Journey at the last moment. And if she's happy, I'd be happy for her."
"That's what I thought," the younger brother said. Then he broke into a grin. "Well, Big Brother, if we're going to keep ahead of that donii that's coming after you, we'd better get moving." Thonolan finished loading his backframe, then lifted his fur parka and slipped an arm out of the sleeve to hang the waterbag over his shoulder underneath it.
The parkas were cut from a simple pattern. Front and back were more or less rectangular pieces laced together at the sides and shoulders, with two smaller rectangles folded and sewn into tubes and attached as sleeves. Hoods, also attached, had a fringe of wolverine fur around the face since ice from moisture in the breath would not cling to it. The parkas were richly decorated with beadwork of bone, ivory, shell, animal teeth, and black-tipped white ermine tells. They slipped on over the head and hung loosely like tunics to about midway down the thigh, and were cinched around the waist with a belt.
Under the parkas were soft buckskin shirts made from a similar pattern, and trousers of fur, flapped over in front and held on with a drawstring around the waist. Fur-lined mittens were attached to a long cord that went through a loop at the back of the parka so they could be quickly removed without dropping or losing them. Their boots had heavy soles that, like moccasins, went up around the foot, and were fastened to softer leather that conformed to the leg and was folded over and wrapped with thongs. Inside was a loose-fitting liner of felt, made from the wool of mouflon that was wetted and pounded together until it matted. When it was especially wet, waterproof animal intestines, made to fit, were worn over the boot, but they were thin, wore out quickly, and were used only when necessary.
"Thonolan, how far do you really plan to go? You didn't mean it when you said all the way to the end of the Great Mother River, did you?" Jondalar asked, picking up a flint axe hefted to a short, sturdy, shaped handle and putting it through a loop on his belt next to the bone-handled flint knife.
Thonolan stopped in the process of fitting on a snowshoe and stood up. "Jondalar, I meant it," he said, without a hint of his usual joking.
"We may not even make it back for next year's Summer Meeting!"
"Are you having second thoughts? You don't have to come with me, Brother. I'm serious. I won't be angry if you turn back – it was a last-moment decision for you anyway. You know as well as I do, we may never get back home again. But if you want to go, you'd better do it now or you'll never make it back across that glacier until next winter."
"No, it wasn't a last-moment decision, Thonolan. I've been thinking about making a Journey for a long time, and this is the right time for it," Jondalar said with a tone of finality, and, Thonolan thought, a shade of unaccountable bitterness in his voice. Then, as though he were trying to shrug it off, Jondalar shifted to a lighter tone. "I never have made much of a Journey, and if I don't now, I never will. I made my choice, Little Brother, you're stuck with me."
The sky was clear, and the sun reflecting the white expanse of virgin snow before them was blinding. It was spring, but at their elevation the landscape showed no sign of it. Jondalar reached into a pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out a pair of snow goggles. They were made of wood, shaped to cover the eyes completely except for a thin horizontal slit, and tied around the head. Then, with a quick twist of the foot to wrap the thong loop into a snowshoe hitch around toe and ankle, he stepped into his snowshoes and reached for his backframe.
Thonolan had made the snowshoes. Spearmaking was his craft, and he carried with him his
favorite shaft straightener, an implement made of an antler with the branching tines removed and a hole at one end. It was intricately carved with animals and plants of spring, partly to honor the Great Earth Mother and persuade Her to allow the spirits of the animals to be drawn to the spears made from the tool, but also because Thonolan enjoyed the carving for its own sake. It was inevitable that they would lose spears while hunting, and new ones would have to be made along the way. The straightener was used particularly at the end of the shaft where a hand grip was not possible, and by inserting the shaft through the hole, additional leverage was obtained. Thonolan knew how to apply stress to wood, heated with hot stones or steam, to straighten a shaft or to bend one around to make a snowshoe. They were different aspects of the same skill.
Jondalar turned to see if his brother was ready. With a nod, they both started out, and tramped down the gradual slope toward the timberline below. On their right, across forested lowland, they saw the snow-covered alpine foreland and, in the distance, the jagged icy peaks of the northernmost ridge of the massive mountain range. Toward the southeast, one tall peak was shining high above its brethren.
The highland they had crossed was hardly more than a hill by comparison, a massif that was the stump of eroded mountains far more ancient than the soaring peaks to the south. But it was just high enough and just close enough to the rugged range with its massive glaciers – that not only crowned but mantled the mountains down to moderate elevations – to maintain a year-round ice cover on its relatively level top. Someday, when the continental glacier receded back to its polar home, that highland would be black with forest. Now, it was a plateau glacier, a miniature version of the immense globe-spanning ice sheets to the north.