by Jean M. Auel
“Does that have a name?” Ayla asked.
“Everybody just calls it Big Rock,” Jondalar said, “and the little stream is called Fish Creek.”
As they looked up the path that ran beside a stream, they saw several people walking down. Brameval was leading the way, approaching them with a big smile. “Come and visit, Joharran,” he said when he reached them. “We’d like to show Ayla around and introduce her to a few people.”
Jondalar could tell from his expression that his brother really didn’t want to stop again, though he knew it would be very impolite to refuse. Marthona, too, could read his expression and jumped in, not willing to let her son make a blunder that might antagonize a good neighbor just because he thought he had to hurry back. Whatever his plans, they weren’t that important.
“Of course,” she said. “We’d love to stop for a while. We can’t stay long this time. We have to get ready for the hunt, and Joharran has some things he must do.”
“How did he know we were passing by just now?” Ayla asked Jondalar as they walked up the path that ran beside Fish Creek and approached their settlement.
“Remember that fork in the path that headed up to caves in High Rock?” he said. “Brameval must have had a watcher up there, and when he saw us coming, he just ran down and told him.”
Ayla saw a crowd of people waiting for them and noticed that the sections of the huge blocks of limestone that faced the creek held several small caves and abris and one immense rock shelter. When they reached it, Brameval turned around and held out his arms in a gesture that encompassed the entire place.
“Welcome to Little Valley, the home of the Fourteenth Cave of the Zelandonii,” he said.
The spacious abri was fronted by a large terrace that was accessible from either side by means of a gradual ramp into which a narrow path of shallow steps had been carved out along the wall. A small hole in the cliff wall above had been slightly enlarged and could be used as a lookout or a smoke hole. A portion of the front opening of the stone shelter was protected from the elements by a wall of piled limestone shards.
The visitors from the Ninth Cave were invited into the primary living site of the small valley community and offered a cup of tea, which was already made. Chamomile, Ayla determined after taking a taste. Wolf was obviously curious to explore this new stone shelter—probably no more so than Ayla—but she kept him at her side. Everyone knew of the wolf who obeyed the woman, of course, and many had already seen him, but from a distance. It was obvious to her that it was more unnerving to have him inside their home.
She introduced Wolf to Brameval’s sister and their Zelandoni while the others looked on. Even though the Ninth Cave were close friends with the Fourteenth, everyone knew it was the stranger, Ayla, who was the focus of attention. After the introductions, and a second round of tea, there was the uncomfortable silence of strangers not quite knowing what to do or say next. Joharran was looking with longing toward the path that led out, toward The River.
“Would you like to see the rest of Little Valley, Ayla?” Brameval said when it became apparent that Joharran was getting anxious to go.
“Yes, I would,” she said.
With some relief, the visitors from the Ninth Cave and several people from the Fourteenth filed down the steps carved along the wall, as children jumped off the front. While the large shelter was the main home of the Fourteenth Cave, two other small rock shelters next to each other at the foot of the south-facing cliff were also used.
They stopped at a small shelter just a few feet away. “This is the Shelter of the Salmon,” Brameval said, leading the way into a small, nearly circular enclosure about twenty feet across.
He pointed up. Ayla looked and saw sculptured in low relief on the vaulted ceiling a life-size salmon almost four feet long, carved with the hooked jaws of a male swimming upstream to spawn. It was part of a more complex scene, containing in addition a rectangle divided by seven lines, the forelegs of a horse, and other enigmatic markings and engravings, along with a negative handprint picked out of a black background. The entire vault had substantial areas of solid red and black color used to accent the engravings.
They made a rather quick tour of the rest of little Valley. In the southwest, opposite the large rock shelter, was a rather spacious cave, and in the south a ledge opened in front of a small abri, which was extended into the cliff wall by a gallery cave some sixty-five feet long. To the right of the entrance of the cave, on a small natural terracette, two aurochs were carved with vigorous outlines, and the suggestion of a rhinoceros.
Ayla was quite impressed with all the natural sites in Little Valley and was quite open about showing it. Brameval and the Fourteenth Cave were proud of their home and were delighted to show it off to someone who demonstrated her appreciation. They were also getting accustomed to the wolf, especially since Ayla was careful to keep him under control. Several people encouraged the visitors, or at least Ayla, to stay for a meal.
“I would like to,” Ayla said, “but not this time. I’d love to come back, though.”
“Well, before you go, I’ll show you our weir,” Brameval said. “It’s on the way to The River.”
He led the rather large group that had gathered, including the visitors, to a permanent dammed fish trap that had been constructed in Fish Creek. The waterway that ran through the narrow valley was a salmon-spawning stream, where adult fish returned every year. By making various adaptations, the weir was an effective way to catch many of the other varieties of fish that also found the small stream tempting. But most prized were the huge salmon, up to five feet in length although four feet was more common for an adult male.
“We also make fishing nets to catch fish, especially from The River,” Brameval said.
“The people I grew up with lived near an inland sea. Sometimes they went to the mouth of the river that flowed near their cave and used nets to catch sturgeon. They were happy when they caught females because they particularly liked the roe, the tiny black fish eggs,” Ayla said.
“I’ve tasted sturgeon roe,” Brameval said, “when we visited the people who live near the Great Waters of the West. It’s good, but sturgeon don’t often come this far upstream. Salmon do, of course, and their eggs are good, too, they’re bigger and bright-colored, almost red. I prefer the fish to the eggs, though. I think salmon like red. Did you know male salmon get red when they’re swimming upstream? I’m not as familiar with sturgeon. I understand they can get quite big.”
“Jondalar caught one of the biggest sturgeon I’ve ever seen. I think it was longer than two of him,” Ayla said, turning to smile at the tall man, and with a twinkle in her eye she added, “It gave him quite a ride.”
“Unless you are planning to stay here, I think Jondalar will have to tell that story later,” Joharran interjected.
“Yes, later,” Jondalar said. The story was a little embarrassing, and he wasn’t eager to tell it, anyway.
They continued talking about fishing as they walked together back toward The River. “When people like to fish by themselves, they often use a gorge. You know how it works, don’t you?” Brameval asked. “You take a small piece of wood, sharpen it at both ends, and tie a fine cord in the middle,” he was eagerly explaining, using his hands as he talked. “I usually attach a float and tie the other end to a pole. Fasten an earthworm around the gorge and dangle it in the water, then watch it. When you see a nibble, with luck, a quick jerk will pull the gorge so that it’s horizontal across the throat or mouth with the two points stuck in either side. Even youngsters can get quite good.”
Jondalar was smiling. “I know. You taught me when I was young,” he said, then looked at Ayla. “Don’t get Brameval started talking about fishing.” The leader looked slightly embarrassed. “Ayla fishes, too, Brameval.” The man smiled at the woman. “She can catch fish with her bare hands.”
“Yes, she told me,” Brameval said. “It must be difficult.”
“It takes a lot of patience, but it�
��s not hard,” Ayla said. “I’ll show you sometime.”
After leaving the narrow gorge of Little Valley, Ayla noticed that the huge mass of limestone called Big Rock, which formed the north side of the Fourteenth Cave’s small vale, soared up steeply, but unlike High Rock, it did not crowd close to The River. After several yards the path widened out as the tall limestone walls that lined the right bank pulled back from the edge of the water until a large field separated the stone walls from the flowing river.
“This is called the Gather Field,” Jondalar said. “It’s another place that’s used by all the Caves around here. When we all want to get together for a gathering, like a feast or a meeting to let everyone know something, this place is big enough to hold us. We sometimes use it after a big hunt to dry the meat for winter. I suppose if there was a stone shelter here or a usable cave, it would have been claimed, but anyone can use it now. Mostly in summer, when a tent is a good enough shelter to stay in for a few days.”
Ayla looked across at the limestone wall. Though there were no usable abris or deep caves, the face of the cliff was split by ledges and crevices where birds nested.
“I used to climb that wall a lot when I was young,” Jondalar said. “There are all kinds of lookout perches and a spectacular view of The River Valley.”
“The youngsters still do,” Willamar said.
Beyond the Gather Field and just downstream from the Ninth Cave, another ridge of limestone cliffs crowded close to The River. Here, the forces that had eroded the stone of the cliff had created a rounded bulging appearance that rose to the top, and like all the limestone cliffs and overhangs, the warm yellowish natural color of the stone was streaked with shades of dark gray.
The trail climbed up a rather steep slope from The River to a sizable level terrace that extended beyond a row of substantial rock shelters, separated in places by sheer rock walls that had no protective overhangs. From the south, several simple structures of hide and wood were seen under the bulging overhang of rock shelters. They were constructed in the pattern of a longhouse, with a row of hearths down the middle paralleling the cliff wall.
Two fairly large stone shelters at the northern end of the terrace, about fifty yards apart, were almost contiguous with the enormous overhanging rock shelter of the Ninth Cave, but because of the way the cliff curved, the shelters did not face south, which Ayla felt made this place less desirable. She looked down at the southerly end of the terrace of the Ninth Cave beyond a spring-fed stream that ran off the edge of the stone porch, and she realized that this ledge was somewhat higher in elevation.
“Which Cave claims this place?” Ayla asked.
“No Cave really claims it,” Jondalar said. “It’s called Down River, probably because it’s just downriver from the Ninth Cave. The runoff of the spring that rises out of the back wall has worn through the stone porch that makes a natural division between the Ninth Cave and Down River. We made a bridge to connect the two places. The Ninth Cave probably uses it more than any other, but all of the Caves use it.”
“What do they use it for?” Ayla asked.
“For making things. It’s a place to work. People come here to work on their crafts, especially crafts that use hard materials.”
Ayla noticed then that the whole terrace of Down River, but especially within and around the area of the two northernmost abris, was littered with a refuse of ivory, bone, antler, wood, and stone from knapping flint and making tools, hunting weapons, and various implements.
“Jondalar, I’m going on ahead,” Joharran said. “We’re almost home and I know you want to stay here and tell Ayla all about Down River.”
The rest of the people of the Ninth Cave went on with him. It was dusk, and would soon be dark.
“The first of these stone shelters is used mostly by those who work flint,” Jondalar said. “Flint leaves a lot of sharp pieces when you work it. It’s best to keep them in one place.” Then he looked around and saw that the debitage of chips and flakes, left behind in the process of making knives, spear points, scrapers, the chisel-like tools called burins, and other weapons and tools out of the hard siliceous stone, was all over. “Well,” he smiled, “that was the original idea.”
He told her that most of the stone tools made here were taken to the second rock shelter to be attached to handles made out of other materials such as wood or bone, and many of those would then be used to make other things out of the same hard materials, but there were no hard and fast rules about what was made where. They often worked together.
For example, the worker who shaped flint into a knife blade often collaborated closely with the one who made the handle for it, perhaps chipping a bit more off the tang of the blade to fit into the handle better, or suggesting that the haft be modified or thinned for better balance. Or the shaper of a bone spear point might ask the flint-knapper to sharpen a tool or suggest a way to rework it to make it easier to use. Or the carver who decorated the handle or shaft might want a special chisel point, and only a skilled and experienced knapper could detach a burin-spall off the end of the flint implement at just the right angle to get the desired result.
Jondalar greeted a few crafters who were still around the second stone shelter at the north end of the terrace, working on some project, and introduced Ayla. They eyed the wolf warily, but went back to work after the animal and the couple passed on.
“It’s getting dark,” Ayla said. “Where will those people sleep?”
“They could come to the Ninth Cave, but they’ll probably light a fire and stay up late, and then spend the night in one of those sleeping lodges under the first shelters we passed,” he explained. “They’re trying to finish before tomorrow. If you recall, there were many more crafters here earlier today. The rest have either gone home or are staying with friends at the Ninth Cave.”
“Does everyone come here to work on projects?” Ayla asked.
“Every Cave has a work site like this near their living area, usually smaller, but whenever crafters have a question or an idea to work out, they come here,” Jondalar said.
He went on to explain that it was also where a young person was taken who had developed an interest and wanted to learn something about a particular craft. It was a good place to discuss things, such as the quality of flint from various regions and the best uses for each variety. Or to exchange views about techniques about anything: how to cut down a tree with a flint axe, or remove suitable pieces of ivory from a mammoth tusk, or cut a tine off an ander, or bore a hole through a shell or a tooth, or shape and pierce beads, or rough out an approximate shape for a bone spear point. It was the place to discuss acquiring raw material and to plan trips or trading missions to get it.
And not least, it was a good place to just talk about who was interested in whom, who was having problems with a mate or a mate’s mother, whose daughter, son, or hearth-child had taken a first step, or spoken a new word, or made a tool, or found a good patch of berries, or tracked an animal, or made a first kill. Ayla quickly got the idea that it was a place for both serious work and friendly camaraderie.
“We’d better get going before it’s too dark to find our way,” Jondalar said, “especially since we don’t have torches. Besides, if we are going hunting tomorrow, there’s a few things we will need, too, and we’ll be off early.”
The sun had already set, though the last glimmerings of light colored the sky overhead when they finally headed down toward the bridge over the runoff creek from the spring. They crossed over to the end of the shelter of stone that was the home of Jondalar and his people, the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii. As the path leveled out, Ayla noticed that the light from several fires ahead was reflected off the underside of the limestone overhang. It was a welcoming sight. For all the protection of the animal Spirits that helped to define her, only people knew how to make fire.
12
It was still dark when they heard a light tap on the doorpost. “The zelandonia are preparing the hunting ceremony,” a voice s
aid.
“We’ll be right there,” Jondalar said quietly.
They were already awake, but not dressed. Ayla had been fighting down a bit of nausea and trying to decide what to wear, not that she had much to choose from. She would have to make herself some clothes. Perhaps she would be able to get a hide or two from their kill today. She looked again at the sleeveless tunic and calf-length leggings, the boys’ underwear Marona had given to her, and made a decision. Why not? It was a comfortable outfit, and it would probably be hot later today.
Jondalar watched her put on the clothing Marona had given her, but didn’t say anything. It had been given to her, after all. She could use it for anything she wanted. He looked up when he saw his mother coming out of her sleeping place.
“Mother, I hope we didn’t wake you,” Jondalar said.
“You didn’t wake me. I still feel an edge of excitement just before a hunt, even though I haven’t gone hunting for years,” Marthona said. “I suppose that’s why I like to be involved in the planning and the rituals. I’m going to the ceremony, too.”
“We both are,” Willamar said, stepping out from behind the screen that divided their sleeping room from the rest of the dwelling.
“I’m coming, too,” Folara said, her sleepy-eyed, tousled head looking around the edge of her screen. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I just need a little time to get dressed.” Suddenly her eyes opened wide. “Ayla! Are you wearing that?”
Ayla looked down at herself, then stood up straight. “This was given to me as a ‘gift,’ ” she said with a touch of defensive belligerence, “and I intend to wear it. Besides,” she added with a smile, “I don’t have many clothes, and this is easy to move in. If I de a cloak or a fur around me, it will be warm in the chill of the morning, but later, when it gets hot, it will be cool and comfortable. It really is a very practical outfit.”