by Jean M. Auel
“Over the years since the First People established the founding Caves, many things have changed,” Manvelar said. “People have moved or found mates in other Caves. Some Caves grew smaller, some bigger.”
“Like the Ninth Cave, some grew unusually large,” Jondalar added.
“The Histories tell of sickness that sometimes claimed many people, or bad years when people starved.” Manvelar picked up the story again. “When Caves get small, sometimes two or more join together. The combined Cave usually takes the lowest number, but not always. When Caves get too big for the size of their shelter, they may break off to form a new Cave, often close by. Some time ago a group from the Second Cave broke off and moved to the other side of their valley. They are called the Seventh Cave because at that time there was a Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth in existence. There is still a Third, of course, and a Fifth, up north, but no longer a Fourth or Sixth.”
Ayla was delighted to learn more about the Zelandonii and smiled her gratitude for the explanation. The three of them sat companionably together for a while, eating quietly. Then Ayla had another question. “Are all Caves known for something special, like fishing or hunting or raft-making?”
“Most of them,” Jondalar said.
“What is the Ninth Cave known for?”
“Their artists and craftspeople,” Manvelar answered for him. “All Caves have skilled artisans, but the Ninth Cave has the best. That’s partly why they are so large. It is not just the children born, but anyone who wants the best training in anything from carving to toolmaking wants to move to the Ninth Cave.”
“That’s mainly because of Down River,” Jondalar said.
“What is ‘Down River’?” Ayla asked.
“It’s the next shelter just downriver from here,” Jondalar explained. “It’s not the home of an organized Cave, although you might think so from the number of people who are usually there. It’s the place where people go to work on their projects, and to talk to other people about them. I’ll take you there, maybe after this meeting—if we get away before dark.”
After everyone had eaten, including the servers, the children of several of the people, and Wolf, they relaxed with cups and bowls of hot tea. Ayla was feeling much better. Her nausea was gone and so was her headache, but she noticed her increased need to pass water again. As the ones who had brought the meal were leaving with the largely empty serving dishes, Ayla noticed that Marthona was standing alone for a moment and walked over to her.
“Is there a place to pass water nearby?” she asked quietly. “Or do we have to go back to the dwellings?”
Marthona smiled. “I was thinking about the same thing. There’s a patii to The River near the Standing Stone, a little steep near the top, but it goes to a place near the bank that is used mainly by the women. I’ll show you.” Wolf followed them, watched Ayla for a while, then discovered a scent more interesting and left to explore more of the bank of The River. On the way back, they passed Kareja heading down the path. They nodded to each other in mutual understanding.
After everything was cleared away, and Joharran made sure everyone was there, he stood up. It seemed to be a signal to resume discussions. Everyone looked at the leader of the Ninth Cave.
“Ayla,” Joharran said, “while we were eating, Kareja brought up a question. Jondalar says that he can communicate with flatheads, the Clan, as you call them, but not like you can. Do you know their language as well as he says?”
“Yes, I know the language,” Ayla said. “I was raised by them. I didn’t know any other language until I met Jondalar. At one time I must have, when I was very young, before I lost my own people, but I didn’t remember it at all.”
“But the place where you grew up was very far from here, a year’s travel, isn’t that right?” Joharran continued. Ayla nodded. “The language of people who live far away is not the same as ours. I cannot understand you when you and Jondalar speak Mamutoi. Even the Losadunai, who live much closer, have a different language. Some words are similar, and I can grasp a little, but I can’t communicate beyond simple concepts. I understand the language of these Clan people is not the same as ours, but how can you, who come from so far away, understand the language of the ones who live around here?”
“I understand your doubt,” Ayla said. “I wasn’t sure myself when we first met Guban and Yorga if I would be able to communicate with them. But language with words is different from the kind of language they use, not only because of the signs and signals, but because they have two languages.”
“What do you mean, two languages?” asked Zelandoni Who Was First.
“They have an ordinary common language that each clan uses every day among themselves,” Ayla explained. “Although they use hand signs and gestures for the most part, including postures and expressions, they also use some words, even though they can’t make all of the sounds that the Others can. Some clans speak words more than others. The common everyday language and words of Guban and Yorga were different from those of my clan, and I couldn’t understand them. But the Clan also has a special, formal language that they use to speak to the World of the Spirits, and to communicate with people from other clans who have a different ordinary language. It is very ancient and no words are used, except some personal names. That was the language I used.”
“Let me make sure I understand this,” Zelandoni said. “This Clan—we’re talking about flatheads here—not only have one language, they have two, and one of them is mutually intelligible with any other flathead, even someone who lives a year’s Journey away?”
“It is rather hard to believe, isn’t it?” Jondalar said with a wide grin. “But it is true.”
Zelandoni shook her head. The rest looked just as skeptical.
“It’s a very ancient language, and people of the Clan have very long memories,” Ayla tried to explain. “They don’t forget anything.”
“I find it difficult to believe that they can really communicate much with only gestures and signs, anyway,” Brameval said.
“I feel the same way,” Kareja said. “As Joharran said about the Losadunai and the Zelandonii comprehending each other’s languages, perhaps we are talking about only simple concepts.”
“You gave a little demonstration in my home yesterday,” Marthona said. “Could you show all of us?”
“And if, as you say, Jondalar knows some of this language, perhaps he could translate for us,” Manvelar added. Everyone nodded.
Ayla stood up. She paused, gathering her thoughts. Then, with the motions of the ancient formal language, she signed, “This woman would greet the man Manvelar.” She spoke the name aloud, but her speech mannerism, her peculiar accent, was much stronger when she said it.
Jondalar translated. “Greetings Manvelar.”
“This woman would greet the man Joharran,” Ayla continued.
“And you, too, Joharran,” Jondalar said. They went through a few more simple statements, but he could tell they were not getting across the full extent of the comprehensive, if silent, language. He knew she could say more, but he couldn’t translate the full complexity.
“You’re just giving me basic signs, aren’t you, Ayla.”
“I don’t think you can translate more than basic signs. Jondalar. That’s all I taught the Lion Camp and you. Just enough so you could communicate with Rydag. I’m afraid the full language wouldn’t mean much to you,” Ayla said.
“When you showed us, Ayla,” Marthona said, “you did your own translation. I think that would be more clear.”
“Yes, why don’t you show Brameval and the others that way, by using both languages,” Jondalar suggested.
“All right, but what should I say?”
“Why don’t you tell us about your life with them,” Zelandoni suggested. “Do you remember when they first took you in?”
Jondalar smiled at the big woman. That was a good idea. It would not only show everyone the language, it would also show the compassion of the people, that they were wi
lling to take in an orphan child, even a strange orphan child. It would show that the Clan treated one of ours better than we treated them.
Ayla stood for a moment, gathering her thoughts; then in both the formal sign language of the Clan and the words of the Zelandonii, she began. “I don’t recall much of the beginning, but Iza often told me how she found me. They were looking for a new cave. There had been an earthquake, probably the one I still dream about. It destroyed their home, falling stones inside the cave killed several of Brun’s clan, and many things were damaged. They buried their dead, then left. Even if the cave was still there, it was unlucky to stay. The spirits of their totems were unhappy there and wanted them to leave. They were traveling quickly. They needed a new home soon, not just for themselves, but because their protective Spirits needed a place where they would be content.”
Though Ayla kept her voice neutral and told the story with signs and movements, the people were already caught up in her tale. To them, totems were an aspect of the Mother and they understood the disasters that the Great Earth Mother could wreak when she was not happy.
“Iza told me they were following a river when they saw carrion birds circling overhead. Brun and Grod saw me first, but passed by. They were looking for food, and would have been glad if the carrion birds had spotted prey killed by a hunting animal. They might be able to keep a four-legged hunter away long enough to take some of the meat. They thought I was dead, but they don’t eat people, not even one of the Others.”
There was a grace and easy flow to Ayla’s movements as she spoke. She made the signs and gestures with practiced ease. “When Iza saw me lying on the ground beside the river, she stopped to look. She was a medicine woman and interested. My leg had been clawed by a big cat, she thought probably a cave lion, and the wound had festered. At first, she thought I was dead, too, but then she heard me moan, so she examined me closer and discovered that I was breathing. She asked Brun, the leader, who was her sibling, if she could take me with them. He did not forbid it.”
“Good!” “Yes!” came responses from the audience. Jondalar smiled to himself.
“Iza was pregnant at the time, but she picked me up and carried me until they made camp for the night. She wasn’t sure if her medicine would work on the Others, but she knew of a case where it had before, so she decided to try. She made a poultice to draw out the infection. She carried me all the next day, too. I remember the first time I woke up and saw her face, I screamed, but she held me and comforted me. By the third day, I was able to walk a little, and by then, Iza decided I was meant to be her child.”
Ayla stopped there. There was a profound silence. It was a moving story.
“How old were you?” Proleva finally asked.
“Iza told me later that she thought I could count about five years at the time. I was perhaps the age of Jaradal, or Robenan,” she added, looking at Solaban.
“Did you say all that with the gestures, too?” Solaban asked. “Can they really say so much without words?”
“There is not a sign for every word I said, but they would have understood essentially the same story. Their language is more than just the motions of the hands. It is everything; even a flicker of an eyelid or a nod of the head can convey meaning.”
“But with that kind of language,” Jondalar added, “they cannot tell a lie. If they tried, an expression or posture would give them away. When I first met her, Ayla didn’t even have a concept for saying something that is not true. She even had trouble understanding what I meant. Though she understands now, she still can’t do it. Ayla can’t lie. She never learned how. That’s how she was raised.”
“There may be more merit than one would realize in speaking without words,” Marthona said quietly.
“I think it is obvious from watching her that this kind of sign language is a natural way of communicating for Ayla,” Zelandoni said, thinking to herself that her motions would not be so smooth and graceful if she was faking. And what reason would she have to lie about it—could it be true that she can’t tell a lie? She wasn’t entirely convinced, but Jondalar’s arguments had been persuasive.
“Tell us more about your life with them,” Zelandoni of the Eleventh said. “You don’t have to continue with the signs, unless you want to. It is beautiful to watch, but I think you have made your point. You said they buried their dead. I’d like to know more of their burial practices.”
“Yes, they bury their dead. I was there when Iza died.”
The discussion continued all afternoon. Ayla gave a moving account of the ceremony and ritual of the burial, then told them more about her childhood. People asked many questions, interrupting often to discuss and request more information.
Joharran finally noticed it was getting dark. “I think Ayla is tired, and we’re all hungry again,” he said. “Before we break up, I think we should talk about a hunt before the Summer Meeting.”
“Jondalar was telling me they have a new hunting weapon to show us,” Manvelar said. “Perhaps tomorrow or the next day would be a good day to hunt. That would give the Third Cave time to develop some plans to offer about where we should go.”
“Good,” Joharran said, “but now, Proleva has arranged another meal for us, if anyone is hungry.”
The meeting had been intense and fascinating, but people were glad to be up and moving around. As they walked back toward the dwellings, Ayla thought about the meeting, and all the questions. She knew she had answered everything truthfully, but she also knew she hadn’t volunteered much beyond what was asked. In particular, she had avoided any mention of her son. She knew that to the Zelandonii he would be thought of as an abomination, and though she could not lie, she could refrain from mentioning.
9
It was dark inside when they reached Marthona’s dwelling. Folara had gone to stay with her friend Ramila, rather than wait alone for her mother, Willamar, Ayla, and Jondalar to return. They had seen her during the evening meal, but the discussions had continued on a more informal basis, and the young woman knew they were not likely to return early.
Not even a faint glow from dying coals in the fireplace could be seen when they pushed aside the entry drape.
“I’ll get a lamp or a torch and get a fire start from Joharran’s,” Willamar said.
“I don’t see any light there,” Marthona said. “He was at the meeting and so was Proleva. They probably went to get Jaradal.”
“How about Solaban’s?” Willamar said.
“I don’t see a light there, either. Ramara must be gone. Solaban was at the meeting all day, too.”
“You don’t have to bother getting fire,” Ayla said. “I have the firestones I found today. I can have one going in a heartbeat.”
“What are firestones?” Marthona and Willamar said almost in unison.
“We’ll show you,” Jondalar said. Though she couldn’t see his face, Ayla knew he was grinning.
“I will need tinder,” Ayla said. “Something to catch a spark.”
“There is tinder by the hearth, but I’m not sure I can find the fireplace without stumbling over something,” Marthona said. “We can get a fire start from someone.”
“You’d have to go in and find a lamp or a torch in the dark, wouldn’t you?” Jondalar said.
“We can borrow a lamp,” Marthona said.
“I think I can make enough spark lights to find the fireplace,” Ayla said, taking out her flint knife and feeling in her pouch for the firestones she had found.
She entered the dwelling first, holding the nodule of iron pyrite in front of her in her left hand and her knife in the right. For a moment she felt as though she were entering a deep cave. The darkness was so intense, it seemed to push back at her. A quick chill shook her. She struck the firestone with the back of her flint blade.
“Ooohhh,” Ayla heard Marthona say as a bright spark lit up the charcoal black interior for an instant and then died.
“How did you do that?” Willamar asked. “Can you do it again?”<
br />
“I did it with my flint knife and a firestone,” Ayla said, and struck the two together to show that she could, indeed, do it again. The long-lived spark allowed her to take a few steps toward the fireplace. She struck it again and moved a little closer to it. When she reached the cooking hearth, she saw that Marthona had found her way there, too.
“I keep my tinder here, on this side,” Marthona said. “Where do you want it?”
“Near the edge here is fine,” Ayla said. She felt Marthona’s hand in the dark, and the soft, dry bits of some kind of fibrous substance it held. Ayla put the tinder on the ground, bent over close, and struck the firestone again. This time the spark jumped to the small pile of quick-burning material and made a faint red glow. Ayla blew at it gently and was rewarded with a little flame. She piled a bit more tinder on it. Marthona was ready with some small bits of wood, and then bigger kindling, and in what seemed hardly more than a heartbeat, a warm fire lit the inside of the dwelling.
“Now, I want to see this firestone,” Willamar said after lighting a few lamps.
Ayla gave him the small nodule of iron pyrite. Willamar studied the grayish-gold stone, turning it over to see all sides. “It just looks like a stone, with an interesting color. How do you make fire with it?” he asked. “Can anyone do it?”
“Yes, anyone can,” Jondalar said. “I’ll show you. Can I have some of that tinder, mother?”
While Marthona got more tinder, Jondalar went to his traveling pack for his fire-making kit and removed the flint striker and firestone. Then he made a small pile of the soft fibers—probably cattail or fireweed fibers mixed with a bit of pitch and crumbled dry rotted wood from a dead tree, he thought. It was the tinder his mother had always preferred. Bending close to the quick-catching tinder, Jondalar struck the flint and iron pyrite together. The spark, not as easy to see next to the burning fire, still landed on the pile of starting material, singed it brown, and sent up a whiff of smoke. Jondalar blew up a small flame and added more fuel. Soon a second fire was burning in the ash-darkened circle surrounded by stones that was the hearth of the dwelling.