by Jean M. Auel
“That was Ayla, too,” Folara informed the man beside her.
“She’s very good,” he said.
“She says she learned to mimic animals before she learned to speak Zelandonii.”
There were other demonstrations portraying and depicting animals, all showing an event or story of some kind. The troupe of traveling storytellers were also a part of the presentation, pressed into service as various animals, and their skills added a vivid realism. Finally the animals started coming together. When they were all gathered, a strange animal appeared. It walked on four legs and had hooved feet, but it was covered with a strange spotted hide that hung down the sides almost to the ground and partially covered its head, to which two straight sticks had been attached that were meant to represent some kind of horns or antlers.
“What is that?” Aldanor asked.
“It’s a magical animal, of course,” Folara said. “But it’s really Ayla’s Whinney, who is being a Zelandoni. The First says all of her horses and Wolf are Zelandonia. That’s why they choose to stay with her.”
The strange Zelandoni animal led all the other animals away, then several of the zelandonia and storytellers hurried back as themselves and began playing drums and flutes. Some began singing some of the older Legends; then others narrated the Histories and lore that the people knew and loved so well.
The zelandonia had prepared well. They used every trick they knew to capture and hold the attention of the large crowd. When Ayla, with her face painted in Zelandoni designs—all except for the area around her new tattoo, which was left bare to show the permanent mark of acceptance—stepped in front of the group, all two thousand people held their breaths, ready to hang on to her every word, her every motion.
Drums resounded, high-pitched flutes interwove with the slow, steady, inexorable bass, with some tones below the range of hearing, but felt deep in the bone, thrum, thrum, thrum. The cadence changed in rhythm, then matched the meter of a verse so familiar, the people joined in singing or saying the beginning of the Mother’s Song.
Out of the darkness, the chaos of time,
The whirlwind gave birth to the Mother sublime.
She woke to Herself knowing life had great worth,
The dark empty void grieved the Great Mother Earth.
The Mother was lonely. She was the only.
The First with her spectacular full, vibrant voice joined in. Drums and flutes played in between the singers and speakers as the Mother’s Song continued. Near the middle, people began to take notice that the voice of the First was so markedly rich and rare, they stopped singing so they could listen. When she reached the last verse, she stopped and only the drums played by Ayla’s visiting kin were left.
But the people almost thought they could hear the words. And then they were sure they could, but they were spoken with a strange, eerie vibrato. At first, the audience wasn’t quite sure what they were hearing. The two young Mamutoi men stood in front of the crowd with their small drums and played the last verse of the Mother’s Song in a strange staccato beat—drumbeats that sounded like words spoken in a throbbing voice as though someone were singing by rapidly varying the pressure of the breath, except it wasn’t someone’s breath, it was the drums! The drums were speaking words!
Th-e-e-e Mu-u-u-the-er wa-a-a-az pule-e-e-z-z-zed wi-i-i-ith …
The silence of the listeners was perfect as everyone strained to hear the drums speak. Ayla, thinking about the way she had learned to throw her voice forward so that even those at the very back could hear her clearly, pitched her normally low voice slightly lower and spoke more loudly and more strongly into the dark stillness lit now by only one fire. The only sound the assembled crowd heard, seeming to come from the air around them on the beat of the drum, was Ayla speaking the last verse of the Mother’s Song alone, repeating the words the drum had spoken.
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.
The drumbeats slowed imperceptibly. Everyone knew this was the end; there was only one line left, yet somehow they were held waiting, not knowing why. It made them nervous, drove up the tension. When the drums got to the end of the verse, they didn’t stop; instead the drums continued with unfamiliar words.
H-e-e-er la-a-ast G-i-i-ift, th-e-e-e …
The people listened carefully, but still weren’t sure what they had heard. Then Ayla stood alone, slowly repeating the verse, with emphasis.
Her last Gift, the Knowledge that man has his part.
His need must be spent before new life can start.
It honors the Mother when the couple is paired,
Because woman conceives when Pleasures are shared.
Earth’s Children were Blessed. The Mother could rest.
That didn’t belong. That was new! They had never heard that part before. What did it mean? People felt uneasy. For as long as anyone knew or remembered, for long before anyone remembered, the Mother’s Song had been the same, except for insignificant variations. Why was it different now? The meaning of the words hadn’t yet penetrated. It was disquieting enough that new words were added, that the Mother’s Song had changed.
Suddenly the last fire was put out. It was so black, no one dared move. “What does it mean?” a voice called out. “Yes, what does it mean?” came an echoing question.
But Jondalar was not asking. He knew. Then it’s true, he thought. Everything Ayla has always said is true. Though he’d had time to think about it, even his mind struggled with the implications. Ayla had always told him Jonayla was his daughter, his true daughter, of his flesh, not just his spirit. She had been conceived because of his actions. Not some amorphous spirit that he couldn’t see, mixed up in some vague way by the Mother inside Ayla with her spirit. He did it. He and Ayla both. He had given Ayla his essence with his manhood, his organ, and that was combined with something inside Ayla to make life begin.
Not every time. He had put a lot of his essence inside her. Maybe it took a lot of essence. Ayla had always said she wasn’t sure exactly how it worked, only that it was a man and woman together that made life start. The Mother had given Her children the Gift of Pleasures to make life begin. Shouldn’t starting a new life be a Pleasure? Is that why the urge to spend his essence inside a woman was so strong? Because the Mother wanted Her children to make their own children?
He felt as though his body had a new sense to it, as though it had come alive in some way. Men were necessary. He was necessary! Without him there would have been no Jonayla. If it had been some other man, she would not be Jonayla. She was who she was because of both of them, Ayla and him. Without men, there could be no new life.
Around the periphery, torches were being lit. People started getting up, milling around. Food was being uncovered and set out in several different areas. Each Cave, or group of related Caves, had a feasting place so no one would have to wait too long to eat. Except for children, most people hadn’t eaten much all day. Some were too busy, some wanted to save room for the feast, and while it wasn’t required, it was considered more proper to eat sparingly before the main meal on feast days.
People were talking as they headed toward the food, asking each other questions, still feeling uneasy.
“Come on, Jondalar,” Joharran said. Jondalar didn’t hear. He was so lost in his own thoughts, the crowd around him did not exist.
“Jondalar!” Joharran said again, and shook his shoulder.
“What?” Jondalar said.
“Come on, they are serving the food.”
“Oh,” the younger brother said, his mind still whirling as he stood up.
“What do you think it all means?” Joharran asked as they started walking.
“Did you see where Ayla went?” Jondalar said, still oblivious to everything
except his own thoughts.
“I haven’t seen her, but I imagine she’ll join us before long. It was quite a ceremony. It took a lot of work and planning. Even the zelandonia need to relax and eat once in a while,” Joharran said. They walked a few steps. “What do you think that meant, Jondalar? That last verse to the Mother’s Song?”
Jondalar finally turned to look at his brother. “It meant what it said, ‘man has his part.’ It’s not just women who are Blessed. No new life can begin without a man.”
Joharran frowned, showing the furrows on his brow that matched his brother’s. “Do you really think so?”
Jondalar smiled. “I know so.”
As they approached the area where the Ninth Cave had gathered to feast, various strong drinks were being handed out. Someone put watertight woven cups in both Joharran’s and Jondalar’s hands. They took a taste, but it wasn’t what either expected.
“What’s this?” Joharran said. “I thought it would be Laramar’s brew. It’s nice, but it’s rather light.”
It was familiar to Jondalar, and he tasted again. Where had he tasted this before? “Ah! The Losadunai!”
“What?” Joharran said.
“This is the drink the Losadunai serve at their Mother Festivals. It tastes light, but don’t underestimate it,” Jondalar warned. “This is potent. It sneaks up on you. Ayla must have made it. Did you see where she went after the ceremony?”
“I thought I saw her a while ago coming out of the ceremonial tent. She had her regular clothes on,” Joharran said.
“Did you see which direction she went?”
“There she is. Over there, where they are serving more of that new drink.”
Jondalar headed toward a sizable group of people milling around a large kerfed box, dipping out cups of liquid. When he saw Ayla, she happened to be standing next to Laramar. She handed him a cup she had dipped. He said something, and she laughed, then smiled at him.
Laramar looked surprised, then leered in response. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all, he thought. She had always been so standoffish before, hardly ever said a word to him. But she is Zelandoni now; they are supposed to honor the Mother at festivals. This may turn out to be an interesting festival. Suddenly Jondalar appeared. Laramar frowned with disappointment.
“Ayla,” Jondalar said. “I need to talk to you. Let’s get away from here.” He took her arm and tried to walk toward a less crowded place.
“Is there some reason you can’t talk right here? I’m sure I’ll be able to hear you. I haven’t suddenly gone deaf,” Ayla said, pulling her arm away.
“But I need to talk to you alone.”
“You had plenty of opportunity to talk to me alone before, but you couldn’t be bothered. Why is it suddenly so important now? This is the Mother Festival. I’m going to stay here and enjoy myself,” she said, turning to smile rather suggestively at Laramar.
He forgot. In his excitement about his new depth of understanding, Jondalar forgot. Suddenly it all came back to him. She had seen him with Marona! And it was true, he hadn’t spoken to her since then. Now she didn’t want to talk to him. Ayla saw his face turn white. He reeled, as if someone had hit him, and stumbled away. He looked so beaten and confused, she almost called him back, but bit her tongue to keep from speaking.
Jondalar walked around in a daze, lost in his own thoughts. Someone put a cup of something in his hand. He drank it without thinking. Someone else filled it again. She was right, he thought. He’d had plenty of time to talk to her, to try to explain things to her. Why hadn’t he done it? She had come looking for him, and found him with Marona. Why hadn’t he gone looking for her? Because he was ashamed and afraid he’d lost her. What was he thinking? He’d tried to keep Marona a secret from Ayla. He should have just told her. In fact he shouldn’t have been with Marona at all. Why had she been so appealing? Why did he want her so much then? Just because she was available? She didn’t even interest him now.
Ayla said she’d lost a baby. His baby! “That baby was mine,” he said aloud. “It was mine!” A few people passing by stared at him, staggering and talking to himself, and shook their heads.
That child she lost was his. She was called. He’d heard something about the terrible ordeal she went though. He’d wanted to go to her then, comfort her. Why hadn’t he? Why had he tried so hard to stay away from her? Now she didn’t want to talk to him. Could he blame her? He couldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see him again.
What if she didn’t? What if she really didn’t ever want to see him again? What if she never wanted to share Pleasures with him again? Then the thought struck him. If she refused to share Pleasures with him, he’d never be able to start a baby with her. He would never have another child with Ayla.
Suddenly he didn’t want to know that it was him. If it was a spirit that caused life to begin, it would just happen, no matter what anyone did. But if it was him, the essence of his manhood, and she didn’t want him, there would be no more children for him. It didn’t occur to him that he could have a child with another woman. It was Ayla he loved. She was his mate. It was her children he had promised to provide for. They would be the children of his hearth. He didn’t want another woman.
As Jondalar stumbled around with a cup in his hand, he drew no more attention than any of the other celebrants who were staggering back and forth to the places where food and drink were supplied. Some laughing people bumped into him. They had just filled a waterbag with a potent drink of some kind.
“Uhhh, sorry. Lemme fill your cup. Can’t have empty cups at a Mother Festival,” one of them said.
Never had there been such a festival. There was more food than anyone could eat, more brew and wine and other beverages than anyone could drink. There were even leaves to smoke, certain mushrooms and other special things to eat. Nothing was forbidden. A few people had been chosen by lot or had volunteered to refrain from festival activities to make sure the Camp remained safe, to assist the few who inevitably got hurt, and to take care of those who got out of hand. And there were no young children around for the revelers to stumble over or worry about. They had all been gathered together to the camp at the edge of Summer Meeting Camp being looked after by Doniers and others.
Jondalar took a drink from his recently filled cup, unmindful that he was losing most of it as he walked around with the sloshing cupful. He hadn’t eaten, and the liberally flowing beverages were having their effect. His head was swimming and his vision fuzzy, but his mind, still caught up in his private thoughts, was disassociated from everything. He heard dancing music and his feet took him toward the sound. Only vaguely did he see the dancers moving around in a circle in the flickering firelight.
Then a woman danced by and suddenly his vision cleared as he focused on her. It was Ayla. He watched her dance with several men. She laughed drunkenly. Staggering unsteadily, she broke away from the circle. Three men followed her, their hands all over her, tearing off her clothes. Unbalanced, she fell over in a heap with the three men. One of them climbed on top of her, roughly spread her legs apart, and jammed his engorged organ into her. Jondalar recognized him. It was Laramar!
Held by the sight, unable to move, Jondalar watched him moving up and down, in and out. Laramar! Filthy, drunken, lazy, shiftless Laramar! Ayla wouldn’t even talk to him, but there she was with Laramar. She wouldn’t let him love her, share Pleasures with her. She wouldn’t let him start a baby with her.
What if Laramar is starting a baby with her!
Blood rushed to his head. All he could see in his red haze was Laramar, on top of Ayla, on top of his mate, bouncing up and down, up and down. Suddenly, in a blazing fury, Jondalar roared, “HE’S MAKING MY BABY!”
The tall man covered the distance between them in three strides. He pulled Laramar off Ayla, spun him around, and smashed his fist into the stunned man’s face. Laramar crumpled to the ground, nearly unconscious. He didn’t know who hit him, or even what had happened.
Jondalar jumped on top o
f him. In a savage, ravaging frenzy of jealousy and outrage, he was hitting Laramar, punching him, hammering him, unable to stop. His voice so tight with frustration, its pitch rose to a squeal, as Jondalar screamed, “He’s making my baby! He’s making my baby!” repeating it over and over again, “He’s making my baby!”
Some men tried to drag him away, but he shook them off. In his maddened fury, his strength was almost superhuman. Several more tried to pull him away, but he was wild; they couldn’t contain him.
Then, as Jondalar pulled back to pound his fist once more into the bloody mass of raw meat unrecognizable as a face, a massive hand grabbed his wrist. Jondalar struggled as he felt himself being pulled away from the unconscious man who was sprawled out on the ground, close to death. He fought to free himself from the two enormous, powerful arms that restrained him, but he couldn’t break loose.
As Danug held him off, Zelandoni cried, “Jondalar! Jondalar! Stop! You’ll kill him!”
He vaguely recognized the familiar voice of the woman he once knew as Zolena, and recalled hitting a young man over her; then his mind went blank. While several of the zelandonia rushed in to attend to Laramar, the burly red-haired giant picked Jondalar up in his arms like a baby and carried him away.
37
Zelandoni gave Ayla one of the tightly woven reed cups that had been specially made for the festival, nearly full of hot tea made of herbs that would be relaxing. She put another cup on a low table, then sat down on the large stool beside Ayla’s stool. They were alone in the large zelandonia dwelling, except for the unconscious man, his face wrapped in soft skins that held healing poultices in place, lying on a nearby bed. Several lamps cast a warm glow of soft light around the injured man, and two more were on a low table that held the tea cups.
“I’ve never seen him like that,” Ayla said. “Why did he do it, Zelandoni?”
“Because you were with Laramar.”