by Jean M. Auel
After the first heat, five men were left. Three of them lined up for the second race, this time from the highest-ranked clans. The one who came in last was given another chance against the remaining two. Then the two men who came in second were paired up, leaving a field of three for the final race—the two first-place winners and the winner of the preceding race. The finalists were Broud, Voord, and the man from Norg’s clan, Gorn.
Of the three, Gorn had run four races to earn his place in the finals, while the other two were fairly fresh after only two. Gorn had won the first paired heat but came in third when the three highest-ranked clans raced. He ran again with the last two men and came in second, then paired off with the man who had come in second in the race where he ran third, this time beating him. By sheer guts and stamina, Gorn had made it to the finals and had won the admiration of everyone there.
When the three men lined up for the last race, Brun stepped out on the field.
“Norg,” he said. “I think it would make the last race more fair if we delayed it to give Gorn a chance to rest. I think the son of the mate of your second-in-command deserves it.”
There were nods of approval, and Brun’s standing inched up, though Broud scowled. The suggestion put his own clan in a less competitive position, it took away the edge Broud might have in racing against a man already tired, but it showed Brun’s fairness, and Norg could hardly refuse. Brun had quickly weighed the alternatives. If Broud lost, his clan stood to lose their position; but if Broud won, Brun’s evident fairness would boost his prestige, and it gave the impression of confidence he didn’t altogether feel. It would make the win clean—there could be no question that Gorn might have won if he had been fresher—providing Broud won. And it was more fair.
It was late in the afternoon before everyone gathered around the field again. Tensions held in abeyance were revived, and more. The three young men, all rested now, pranced around stretching muscles and hefting spears to find the right balance. Goov moved to the snag with two men from the other clans, and Crug went to the fallen log with two others. Broud, Gorn, and Voord lined up three abreast, fastened their eyes on Norg, and waited for his signal. The leader of the host clan lifted his arm. He dropped it quickly and the men were off.
Voord sprang to the lead with Broud at his heels and Gorn pounding hard behind. Voord was already reaching for his second spear as Broud rammed his into the rotted snag. Gorn put on a fresh burst of speed that urged Broud forward as they raced for the fallen log, but Voord was still ahead. He jabbed his spear into the hide-covered log just as Broud pulled up, but he hit a hidden gnarl and the spear clattered to the ground. By the time he retrieved it and thrust again, both Broud and Gorn had passed him by. He grabbed for his third spear and set out after them, but for Voord, the race was lost.
Broud and Gorn raced for the final target, legs pumping, hearts pounding. Gorn started gaining on Broud, then inched out ahead, but the sight of the broad-shouldered giant of a man making Broud eat his dust enraged him. He thought his lungs would burst as he surged forward, forcing every muscle and sinew. Gorn reached the hide spread on the ground an instant before Broud, but as he raised his arm, Broud darted beneath and planted his spear into the ground through the tough leather as he ran across the hide. Gorn’s spear bit through at the next heartbeat. It was a heartbeat too late.
As Broud slowed to a stop, the hunters of Brun’s clan crowded around him. Brun watched them, his eyes glowing with pride. His heart was beating almost as fast as Broud’s. He had agonized every step of the way with the son of his mate. It was close, for a few tense moments Brun was sure he was going to lose, but he had given his all and come through. It was a crucial race, but with this win, he had more than a chance. I must be getting old, Brun thought, I lost the bola throw, but not Broud. Broud won. Maybe it’s time to turn the clan over to him. I could make him leader, announce it right here. I’ll fight for the first rank and let him go home with the honor. After that race, he deserves it. I’ll do it! I’ll tell him right now!
Brun waited until the men were through congratulating him, then approached the young man, looking forward to Broud’s joy when he found out the great honor he was about to receive. It would be a fitting reward for the fine race he had run. It was the greatest gift he could give to the son of his mate.
“Brun!” Broud saw the leader and spoke first. “Why did you have to delay the race? I almost lost. I could have beat him easily if you hadn’t given him time to rest. Don’t you care if our clan is first?” he motioned petulantly. “Or is it that you know you’ll be too old to be leader next Gathering? If I’m going to be the leader, the least you could do is let me start as first, like you did.”
Brun stepped back, stunned by Broud’s vituperative attack. He struggled to control his conflicting emotions. You don’t understand, Brun thought, I wonder if you will ever understand? This clan is first; if I can help it, it will stay first. But what will happen when you become leader, Broud? How long will this clan be first then? The pride left his eyes, and a great sorrow overwhelmed him, but Brun controlled that, too. Perhaps he’s just too young, he rationalized, maybe he just needs a little more time, a little more experience. Have I ever really explained? Brun tried to forget that no one had to explain to him.
“Broud, if Gorn had been tired, would your win have been as good? What if the other clans doubted that you could beat him if he hadn’t been tired? This way they know for sure that you won, and so do you. You did well, son of my mate,” Brun motioned gently. “You ran a good race.”
In spite of his bitterness, Broud still respected this man more than anyone he ever knew, and he could not help but respond. At that moment Broud felt, as he had on his first manhood hunt, that he would give anything for such praise from Brun.
“I didn’t think about that, Brun. You’re right, this way everyone knows I won, they know I’m better than Gorn.”
“With this race, and Droog winning the toolmaking competition, if our mammoth hunt wins tonight, we’re sure to come out first,” Crug said enthusiastically. “And you will be one of those chosen for the Bear Ceremony, Broud.”
More men crowded around Broud to congratulate him as he walked back to the cave. Brun watched him go and then saw Gorn walking back, too, surrounded by Norg’s clan. An older man clapped his shoulder in a gesture of encouragement.
Norg’s second has a right to be proud of the son of his mate, Brun thought. Broud may have won the race, but I’m not sure he’s the better man. Brun had only controlled his sorrow, not eliminated it, and though he struggled to bury it deeper, the pain would not die. Broud was still the son of his mate, the child of his heart.
“The men of Norg’s clan are brave hunters,” Droog admitted. “It was a good plan, digging a hole in the path the rhinoceros takes to his drinking place and covering it with brush to hide it. Maybe we could try it sometime. It took courage to drive him back when he bolted; rhinos can be more fierce than mammoths, and much more unpredictable. Norg’s hunters told it well, too.”
“But it still wasn’t as good as our mammoth hunt. Everyone agreed,” Crug said. “Gorn deserved to be one of the chosen, though. Almost every contest was between Broud and Gorn. For a while I was afraid we would not win the competitions this year. Norg’s clan is a very close second. What do you think of the third choice, Grod?”
“Voord did well, but I would have chosen Nouz,” Grod replied. “I think Brun preferred Nouz, too.”
“It was a hard choice, but I think Voord deserved it,” Droog commented.
“We won’t be seeing much of Goov until after the festival,” Crug said. “Now that the competitions are over, the acolytes will be spending all their time with the mog-urs. I hope the women don’t think that just because Broud and Goov won’t be eating with us tonight, they don’t have to make as much. I’m going to eat well; there won’t be anything else until the feast tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’d want to eat if I were Broud,” Droog said. “It’s a
great honor to be chosen for the Bear Ceremony, but if he ever needed courage, Broud will need it in the morning.”
The first morning light found the cave empty. The women were already up working by firelight, and the rest couldn’t sleep. The preliminary preparations for the feast had consumed days, but the work was nothing compared with the task ahead. Full daylight was upon them long before the glowing disc burst over the tops of the mountains, flooding the cave site with burning rays from a sun already high.
Excitement was tangible, tension unbearable. With the competitions over, the men had nothing to do until the ceremonies, and they were restless. Their nervous agitation infected the older boys, and they in turn stirred up the rest of the youngsters, driving the busy women to distraction; milling men and chasing children all got in their way.
The turbulence subsided temporarily when the women served cakes of crashed millet mixed with water and baked on hot stones. The breakfast of bland biscuits was eaten with solemnity. They were reserved for this one day alone out of every seven years, and, except for nursing babies, were the only food anyone would eat until the feast. The millet cakes were a token only and did little more than whet the appetite. By midmorning, hunger, stimulated by delicious smells emanating from various fires, intensified the turmoil, raising excited anticipation to a fever pitch as the time for the Bear Ceremony drew near.
Creb had not approached either Ayla or Uba with instructions to prepare themselves for the ritual that would be held later, and they were sure the mog-urs had found neither of them acceptable. They were not alone in wishing Iza had been well enough to make the journey. Creb had used every power of persuasion at his command to convince the other magicians to let one of them make the drink, but as much as they wanted the ritual and, for them, the rare experience of the drink made from the roots, Ayla was too strange and Uba too young. The mog-urs refused to accept Ayla as a woman of the Clan, much less a medicine woman of Iza’s line. The celebration of Ursus affected more than the clans that were in attendance; the consequences, good or bad, of any rituals performed at any Clan Gathering redounded to the entire Clan. The mog-urs would not chance the possibility of invoking bad luck that would cast misfortune on all Clan people everywhere. The stakes were too high.
Eliminating that traditional ritual of the ceremony contributed to the devaluation of Brun and his clan. For all the efforts of his men in the competitions, Brun’s acceptance of Ayla posed more threat to the clan’s position than anything ever had before. It was too unconventional. Only Brun’s adamant stand in the face of increasing opposition kept the issue undecided, and he wasn’t at all sure he would win out in the end.
Not long after the millet cakes were served, the leaders arranged themselves near the mouth of the cave. They waited quietly for the attention of the assembled clans. The silence spread out like the ripples of a stone cast in a pond as the presence of the leaders was made known. Men moved quickly into positions defined by clan and personal rank. The women dropped their work, signaled suddenly well-behaved children, and silently followed suit. The Bear Ceremony was about to begin.
The first beat of the smooth hard stick on the hollowed-out wooden bowl-shaped drum resounded like a sharp crack of thunder in the expectant hush. The slow, stately rhythm was picked up by the stamping of wooden spears against the ground, adding a muted depth. A contrapuntal rhythm of sticks beating on a long, hollow, wooden tube wove around the strong steady beat in a seemingly random pattern of sound, apparently independent from it. Yet the staccato rhythms, played at varying tempos, had a stressed beat that coincided with every fifth thrum of the basic rhythm as if by accident. They combined to produce an increasing sense of expectation, almost of anxiety, until the beats came together. Each release began another surge of tension in wave after hypnotic wave of sound and sensation.
All sound came to a sudden halt on a final, satisfying beat. As if they had materialized out of thin air, the bearskin-cloaked mog-urs stood nine abreast in front of the cage of the cave bear, with The Mog-ur alone in front of them. The feel of the strong beat still echoed inside the heads of the people in the overpowering silence. The Mog-ur held a flat, long oval of wood attached at one end to a cord. As he spun it round and round, a barely audible whir increased to a loud roar filling the silence. The deep, haunting resonance of the bullroarer raised gooseflesh as much for its significance as for its sonorous timbre. It was the voice of the Spirit of the Cave Bear warning all other spirits away from this ceremony devoted to Ursus alone. No totemic spirits would come to their aid; they had placed themselves entirely under the protection of the Great Spirit of the Clan.
A high-pitched warble penetrated the deep-throated bass; its thin, wailing ululation sent cold shivers down the spines of the most fearless as the bullroarer wound down. Like nothing so much as a disembodied spirit, the eerie, unearthly trill pierced the bright morning air. Ayla, standing in the front row, could see the sound was coming from something held to the mouth of one of the mog-urs.
The flute, made from the hollow legbone of a large bird, had no finger holes. Its pitch was controlled by stopping and unstopping the open end. In the hands of a skillful player, a full five-note pentatonic scale could be drawn from the simple instrument. To the young woman, no less than the rest, it was magic that created the unfamiliar music; it sounded like nothing ever heard on earth. It had come from the world of the spirits at the command of the holy man, for this ceremony alone. As the bullroarer symbolized and imitated the roar of the cave bear in physical form, the flute was the sound of the spiritual voice of Ursus.
Even the magician who played the instrument felt the sanctity of the sound that issued forth from the primitive pipe, though he himself had made it. Making and playing the magic flute was the esoteric secret of the magicians of his clan, a secret which usually brought those magicians to first rank. Only Creb’s unique ability had displaced the mog-ur who played the flute to second, but it was a powerful second. And it was he who most opposed the acceptance of Ayla.
The huge cave bear was pacing his cage. He had not been fed and he wasn’t used to going without food; he had never known a hungry day in his life. Water had been withheld from him as well, and he was thirsty. The crowd, smelling of tension and excitement, the unaccustomed sounds of wooden drums, bullroarer, and flute, all combined to make the animal nervous.
When he saw The Mog-ur limping toward his cage, he hauled his massive, overweight bulk up on his hind legs and roared a complaint. Creb jerked in startled reflex, but recovered quickly and masked it with a normal-seeming jerky step. His face, like the rest of the magicians’ faces, blackened with a paste of manganese dioxide, showed no sign of his rapidly beating heart as he tilted his head back to look up at the unhappy giant. He carried a small bowl of water, the shape and ivory gray color making it obvious that the bowl had once been a human skull. He put the macabre water container into the cage and stepped back while the shaggy bruin dropped down to drink.
While the animal lapped up the liquid, twenty-one young hunters surrounded his cage, each carrying a newly made spear. The leaders of the seven clans not fortunate enough to have a man selected for special honors had each chosen three of their best hunters for the ceremony. Then, Broud, Gorn, and Voord ran out of the cave and lined up outside the securely lashed door of the cage. They were naked except for small loincloths, and their bodies were daubed with red and black markings.
The small amount of water did little to satisfy the thirst of the great bear, but the men so near his cage made him hopeful that more was coming. He sat up and begged, a gesture that had rarely gone without response before. When his efforts went unrewarded, he lumbered over to the nearest man and poked his nose through the heavy bars.
The music of the flute ended on an uncomfortably unfinished note, heightening the anticipation in the anxious silence. Creb retrieved the skull bowl, then shuffled to his place in front of the magicians lined up across the mouth of the cave. At an unseen signal, the mog-urs began th
e movements of the formal language in unison.
“Accept your water as a token of our gratitude, O Mighty Protector. Your Clan has not forgotten the lessons learned from you. The cave is our home, protecting us from the snow and cold of winter. We, too, rest quietly, nourished by the food of summer, warmed by furs. You have been one of us, lived with us, and know we keep your ways.”
Faces blackened, and dressed in identical cloaks of shaggy bear fur, the magicians resembled a well-rehearsed dance troupe moving as one as they spoke with stately flowing gestures. The Mog-ur’s eloquent one-handed symbols that matched yet modified the others, punctuated the elegant movements and added emphasis.
“We venerate you first among all Spirits. We beg you to speak for us in the world of the Spirits, to tell of the bravery of our men, the obedience of our women, to make a place for us when we return to the otherworld. We beseech your protection from the evil ones. We are your People, Great Ursus, we are the Clan of the Cave Bear. Go with honor, Greatest of Spirits.”
As the mog-urs made the symbols for the names of the great animal in his presence for the first time, the twenty-one young men thrust their spears between the stout trees of the cage, piercing the tremendous shaggy bulk of the revered creature. Not all drew blood, the cage was too large for all the spears to penetrate deeply, but the pain enraged the nearly full-grown cave bear. His angry roar shattered the silence. The people jumped back with fear.
At the same time, Broud, Gorn, and Voord began to cut away the lashings on the door of the cage, scrambling up the trees until they reached the top of the palisade. Broud reached the top first, but Gorn managed to grab the short thick log put there earlier. The pain-maddened cave bear reared up on his hind legs again, bellowed an angry roar, and lumbered toward the three young men. His massive domed head nearly reached the tallest tree trunks of the enclosure. He reached the opening, pushed at the gate, and sent it crashing to the ground. The cage was open! The monstrous, angry bear was loose!