by Jean M. Auel
She stopped and looked down at the damp clay floor of the cave. All the people with their flickering torches were gathered together in one place. The pool of light didn’t spread very far and the animals painted on the walls were just hints in the darkness, more like the fleeting glimpses that most people saw in the world outside.
“On this trip, and before, we have seen other paintings and drawings that were beautiful, and some that were not so beautiful, but remarkable just the same. I don’t know how people do this, and I can’t begin to know why. I think it’s done to please the Mother and I’m sure it must, and maybe to tell Her story, or some other stories. Maybe people do it just because they can. Like Jonokol, he thinks of something to paint, and he can do it, so he does it. It’s the same when you sing, Zelandoni. Most people can sing, more or less, but no one can sing like you. When you sing, I don’t want to do anything but listen. It makes me feel good inside. That’s how I feel when I look at these painted caves. It’s how I feel when Jondalar looks at me with his eyes full of love. It feels like the ones who made these images are looking at me with eyes full of love.”
She looked down at the floor because she was fighting back tears. She could usually control her tears, but she was having trouble this time.
“I think that’s how the Mother must feel, too,” Ayla finished, her eyes glistening in the flickering light.
Now I know why she’s mated, the Watcher thought. She’s going to be a remarkable Zelandoni; she already is, but she couldn’t do it without him. Maybe that’s what the Mother meant him to do. Then she started to hum. Jonokol joined her. His singing always seemed to make others’ songs sound better. Then Willamar joined in just singing syllables. His voice was adequate, but it added to the music they sang together. Then Jondalar joined them. He had a good voice, but he didn’t sing except when others did. Then with the voices making a background chorus that resonated inside the stone cave that was so beautifully decorated, the One Who Was First Among Those Who Served The Great Earth Mother began where she had left off with the Mother’s Song.
And Her luminous friend was prepared to contest,
The thief who held captive the child of Her breast.
Together they fought for the son She adored.
Their efforts succeeded, his light was restored.
His energy burned. His brilliance returned.
But the bleak frigid dark craved his bright glowing heat.
The Mother defended and would not retreat.
The whirlwind pulled hard, She refused to let go.
She fought to a draw with Her dark swirling foe.
She held darkness at bay. But Her son was away.
When She fought the whirlwind and made chaos flee,
The light from Her son glowed with vitality.
When the Mother grew tired, the bleak void held sway,
And darkness returned at the end of the day.
She felt warmth from Her son. But neither had won.
The Great Mother lived with the pain in Her heart,
That She and Her son were forever apart.
She ached for the child that had been denied,
So She quickened once more from the life force inside.
She was not reconciled. To the loss of Her child.
When She was ready, Her waters of birth,
Brought back the green life to the cold barren Earth.
And the tears of Her loss, abundantly spilled,
Made dew drops that sparkled and rainbows that thrilled.
Birth waters brought green. But Her tears could be seen.
With a thunderous roar Her stones split asunder,
And from the great cave that opened deep under,
She birthed once again from Her cavernous room,
And brought forth the Children of Earth from Her womb.
From the Mother forlorn, more children were born.
Each child was different, some were large and some small,
Some could walk and some fly, some could swim and some crawl.
But each form was perfect, each spirit complete,
Each one was a model whose shape could repeat.
The Mother was willing. The green earth was filling.
All the birds and the fish and the animals born,
Would not leave the Mother, this time, to mourn.
Each kind would live near the place of its birth,
And share the expanse of the Great Mother Earth.
Close to Her they would stay. They could not run away.
They all were her children, they filled Her with pride,
But they used up the life force She carried inside.
She had enough left for a last innovation,
A child who’d remember Who made the creation.
A child who’d respect. And learn to protect.
First Woman was born full grown and alive,
And given the Gifts she would need to survive.
Life was the First Gift, and like Mother Earth,
She woke to herself knowing life had great worth.
First Woman defined. The first of her kind.
Next was the Gift of Perception, of learning,
The desire to know, the Gift of Discerning.
First Woman was given the knowledge within,
That would help her to live, and pass on to her kin.
First Woman would know, How to learn, how to grow.
Her life force near gone, the Mother was spent,
To pass on Life’s Spirit had been Her intent.
She caused all of Her children to create life anew,
And Woman was blessed to bring forth life, too.
But Woman was lonely. She was the only.
The Mother remembered Her own loneliness,
The love of Her friend and his hovering caress.
With the last spark remaining, Her labor began,
To share life with Woman, She created First Man.
Again She was giving. One more was living.
To Woman and Man the Mother gave birth,
And then for their home, She gave them the Earth,
The water, the land, and all Her creation.
To use them with care was their obligation.
It was their home to use, But not to abuse.
For the Children of Earth the Mother provided,
The Gifts to survive, and then She decided
To give them the Gift of Pleasure and sharing,
That honors the Mother with the joy of their pairing.
The Gifts are well earned, When honor’s returned.
The Mother was pleased with the pair She created,
She taught them to love and to care when they mated.
She made them desire to join with each other,
The Gift of their Pleasures came from the Mother.
Before She was through, Her children loved too.
Earth’s Children were blessed. The Mother could rest.
The silence was profound when they finished. Each person standing there felt the power of the Mother and the Mother’s Song, more than they ever had. They looked at the paintings again and were more conscious of the animals that seemed to be emerging from the cracks and shadows of the cave, as though the Mother was creating them, giving birth to them, bringing them from the Other World, the spirit world, the Mother’s Great Underworld.
Then they heard a sound that sent a chill through them, the mewling of a lion cub. It changed to the sounds a young lion made when it called for its mother, then to the first attempts of a young male lion trying to roar, and finally the huffing and grunting that led up to a fullblown roar of a male lion claiming his own.
“How does she do that?” the Watcher asked. “It sounds like a lion going through stages of growth. How does she know that?”
“She raised a lion, took care of him when he was growing up, and taught him to hunt with her,” Jondalar said, “and roared with him.”
“Did she tell you that?” the Watcher asked, a hin
t of doubt in her tone.
“Well, yes, sort of. He came back to visit her when I was healing in her valley, but he didn’t like seeing me there, and attacked. Ayla stepped in front of me and he twisted himself around and stopped cold. Then she rolled around on the ground and hugged him, and got on his back and rode him, like she does Whinney. Except I don’t think he would go where she wanted, only where he wanted to take her. He did bring her back, though. Then, after I asked her, she told me,” Jondalar said.
His story was straightforward enough to be convincing. The Watcher just shook her head. “I think we should all light new torches,” she said. “There should be at least one left for each of us, and I have some lamps, too.”
“I think we should wait with the torches until we all get back out of this corridor,” Willamar said.
“Yes, you’re right,” Jonokol said. “Will you hold mine?” he said to the Watcher.
Jonokol, Jondalar, Ayla, and Willamar literally lifted the First up some of the bigger drops, while the Watcher held up the torches to light the way. She threw one that had burned to almost nothing into one of the hearths that were lined up against the walls. When they reached the painted horses, everyone took a new torch. The Watcher stubbed out the ones that were partially burned and put them in her backframe; then they started back the way they had come. No one said much, just looked again at the animals as they passed by. Before they reached the entrance they noticed how much light found its way deeper into the cave.
At the entrance, Jonokol stopped. “Will you take me back into the large area in that other room?”
“Of course,” she said without asking why. She knew.
“I’d like to go with you, Zelandoni of the Nineteenth Cave,” Ayla said.
“I’m glad. I’d like you to. You can hold my torch,” he said with a grin.
She was the one who found the white cave, and he was the first one she showed it to. She knew he was going to paint on those beautiful walls, although he might want some helpers. The three of them went back into the second room of the Bear Cave while the rest went out. The Watcher took them in a shorter way, and she knew where to take him, to the place where he had looked when they first went into this part of the cave. He found the secluded recess, and the ancient concretion he had seen before.
Taking out a flint knife, he went to the basin-topped stalagmite and in its base, in one accomplished movement, he carved the forehead, nose, mouth, jaw, and cheek, then two stronger lines for the mane and back of a horse. He looked at it a moment, then engraved the head of a second horse facing the opposite way on top of the first one. The stone of this one was a little harder to cut through, and the forehead line was not as precise, but he went back and cut individual hairs of a stand-up mane spaced at consistent intervals. Then he stepped back and looked.
“I wanted to add to this cave, but I wasn’t sure if I should until after the First sang the Mother’s Song deep in this cave,” the Zelandoni of the Nineteenth Cave of the Zelandonii said.
“I told you it was the Mother’s choice, and you would know. Now I know. It was appropriate,” the Watcher said.
“It was the right thing to do,” Ayla said. “Perhaps it is time for me to stop calling you Jonokol and start referring to you as the Zelandoni of the Nineteenth.”
“Perhaps in public, but between us I hope I will always be Jonokol and you will be Ayla,” he said.
“I would like that,” Ayla said; then she turned to the Watcher. “In my mind I think of your name as the Watcher, as the one who watches over, but if you don’t mind, I would like to know the name you were born with.”
“I was called Dominica,” she said, “and I will always think of you as Ayla no matter what happens, even if you become the First.”
Ayla shook her head. “That is not likely. I am a foreigner with a strange accent.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dominica said. “We acknowledge the First, even if we don’t know her or him. And I like your accent. I think it makes you stand out, as the One Who Is First should.” Then she led them back out of the cave.
All that evening Ayla thought about the remarkable cave. There had been so much to see, to take in, it made her wish she could see it again. People were talking that evening about what to do with Gahaynar, and she kept finding her mind straying back to the cave. He appeared to be recovering from the severe beating he had received. Though he would carry the scars for the rest of his life, he seemed to hold no ill feelings toward the people who had done it. If anything, he seemed grateful not only to be alive, but that the zelandonia were taking care of him.
He knew what he had done, even if no one else did; Balderan and the others had died for not much worse. He didn’t know why he had been spared, except that silently, while Balderan was planning how to kill the foreign woman, he had begged the Mother to save him. He knew they would never get away and he didn’t want to die.
“He seems sincere in his wish to make reparations,” Zelandoni First said. “Perhaps because he knows now that he can be made to pay for his actions, but it appears that the Mother has decided to spare him.”
“Does anyone know to which Cave he was born?” the First asked. “Does he have relatives?”
“Yes, he has a mother,” said one of the other Zelandonia. “I don’t know of any other kin, but I think she’s quite old and is losing her memories.”
“That’s the answer then,” said the First. “He should be sent back to his Cave to care for his mother.”
“But how is that reparations? It’s his own mother,” said another Zelandoni.
“It won’t necessarily be easy if she continues to deteriorate, but it will relieve the Cave of having to look after her, and it will give him something worthwhile to do. I don’t think it was something he planned to do as long as he was with Balderan, taking whatever he wanted without having to work for it. He should be made to work, to hunt for himself, or at least assist in communal hunts with his Cave, and to personally help his mother with whatever she needs.”
“I guess that’s not something a man necessarily likes to do, to take care of an old woman,” the other Zelandoni said, “even his own mother.”
Ayla had only been half listening, but she understood the gist of it and thought it was a good plan, and then went back to thinking about the Most Ancient Sacred Site. She finally decided that sometime in the next day or two, she would go back into the cave, alone, or perhaps with Wolf.
In the late morning the next day Ayla asked Levela if she would watch Jonayla again, and check to see how her meat was drying. She had put out another load of bison meat on the cords and thought this might be a good time to satisfy her desire to see the Most Ancient Sacred Site once more.
“I’m going to take Wolf and go back to the cave. I just want to see it again before we leave. Who knows how soon, if ever, we’ll be back here again.”
She packed several torches and a couple of stone lamps, along with some lichen wicks and some tied-off sections of intestine filled with fat that she put in a double-layered leather pouch. She checked her fire-making kit to make sure she had adequate materials—a firestone and flint, tinder, kindling, and some larger pieces of wood. She filled her waterbag and packed a cup for herself and a bowl for Wolf to drink from. She took her medicine bag with some extra packets of tea, although she doubted that she would make tea inside the cave, her good knife, and some warm clothes for wearing inside the cave, but she didn’t bother with foot coverings. She was used to going barefoot and the soles of her feet were nearly as hard as hooves.
She whistled for Wolf and started walking up the path to the cave. When she reached the large entrance, she glanced at the sheltered corner. There was no fire burning in the fireplace and when she peeked into the sleeping structure, she saw that it was empty. The Watcher wasn’t there this day. Usually she was told when people would be coming to visit the Most Ancient Sacred Site, and Ayla just decided to go without making prior arrangements.
She started a
small fire in the fireplace and lit a torch, then holding it high, she started in, signaling Wolf to follow. She was aware again of how large the cave was, and of the disordered nature of the first rooms. Columns detached from the ceiling and tipped over, and huge blocks and fallen rock and rubble were scattered around the floor. The light penetrated into the cave quite a distance and she went in the way they originally had, to the left and straight ahead into the huge room with the bear wallows. Wolf stayed close to her side.
She kept to the right side of the passage, knowing that except for the large right-hand room, which she planned to visit on her way out, there would not be much to see until she was halfway into the cave. She did not plan to stay in the cave too long or to try to see everything again, just certain things. She proceeded into the chamber with the bear hollows and followed the right wall around until she came to the next room at the end of it, then looked for the thick blade-shaped rock that descended from the ceiling.
There it was as she remembered, painted in red, the leopard with the long tail and the hyena-bear. Was it a hyena or was it a bear? Yes, the shape of the head gave it the look of a cave bear, but the muzzle was longer and the tuft on the top of the head along with a bit of a mane looked like the stiff hair of a hyena. None of the other bears in this cave had that slender, long-legged shape—look at the second bear painted above it! I don’t know what the artist was trying to say with this painting, she thought, but it looks to me like it is a painting of a hyena, even though it is the only hyena I have ever seen painted in any cave. But I’ve never seen a leopard, either. There are a bear, a hyena, and a leopard painted in this place, all strong, dangerous animals. I wonder what the Traveling Storytellers would say about this scene?
Ayla passed by the next series of images, looking but not lingering—possible insects, a line of rhinoceroses, lions, horses, mammoths, signs, dots, handprints; she smiled at the red drawing of the little bear, so like the other bears in this cave, but smaller. She recalled that at this point in the cave the Watcher had turned left, then continued to follow the right wall. The next space had evidence of cave bears, and the floor was about five feet lower, which led to the next room, the one with the deep hole in the middle.