by Jean M. Auel
“Can I pour some for you?” he said to her. She allowed him to fill her cup and, without staring directly, observed him more closely. He was an ordinary-looking man with light brown hair and beard, and blue eyes, not tall or short, and not fat or thin, though he did have a potbelly and generally a musculature that seemed softer, not as defined as that of most men. Then she saw that his neck was gray with grime, and she was sure that he seldom washed his hands.
It was easy enough to get dirty, particularly in winter when water often had to be melted from ice or snow, and using fuel for water to wash with was not always wise. But in summer, when water was available and soaproot plentiful, most people she knew preferred to be reasonably clean. It was unusual to see anyone quite so filthy.
“Thank you, Laramar,” she said, smiled, and took a sip, though seeing the one who produced the brew made it less appetizing.
He smiled back. She had the feeling he didn’t smile often and the distinct impression that this smile was insincere. She also noticed that his teeth were crooked. That wasn’t his fault, she knew. Many people had crooked teeth, but it did add to his generally disagreeable appearance.
“I was looking forward to your company,” Laramar said.
Ayla was puzzled. “Why were you expecting my company?”
“At a burial feast, strangers are always at the end of the line, after everyone who belongs to a Cave. But I noticed you were at the front,” he said.
Marthona was annoyed for a moment, and Ayla caught the fleeting look on her face. “Yes, she probably should have been at the back near you, Laramar,” the woman said, “but you know, Ayla will soon belong to the Ninth Cave.”
“But she’s not Zelandonii, yet,” the man said. “She is foreign.”
“She is Promised to Jondalar, and her status among her own people was quite high.”
“Didn’t she say she was raised by flatheads? I didn’t know the status of flatheads counted for more than a Zelandonii,” he said.
“To the Mamutoi she was a healer and a daughter of their Mamut, their Zelandoni,” Marthona said. The former leader was becoming irritated. She did not like having to make explanations to the lowest-ranked man of the Cave … especially when he was right.
“She didn’t do much to heal Shevonar, did she?” Laramar said.
“No one could have done more for him than Ayla did, not even the First,” Joharran said, coming to her defense. “And she did help relieve his pain so he could hold on until his mate arrived.”
Ayla noticed that Laramar’s smile had become malicious. He was taking great pleasure in upsetting Jondalar’s family and putting them on the defensive, and it had something to do with her. She wished she understood what it was about, and planned to ask Jondalar when they were alone, but she was beginning to understand why people spoke of Laramar with such reproach.
The zelandonia were beginning to gather around the burial shelter again, and people were taking their plates to a far corner of the Gather Field and scraping the remains onto a pile of leftovers. The midden would be left, and once the people were gone, the discarded meat and bones would be taken by various scavengers, while the vegetal matter would decay back into the ground. It was a common method of disposal. Laramar walked with Jondalar’s family to the refuse heap, Ayla was sure it was to cause them a little more chagrin, then went his own way with a distinct swagger.
After people had gathered around the burial shelter again, the One Who Was First picked up the tightly woven basket of red ochre that Ayla had powdered. “There are Five Sacred Colors. All other colors are aspects of those primary colors. The first color is red,” the large donier began. “It is the color of blood, the color of life. Some flowers and fruits show the true color of red, but they are ephemeral.
“Red seldom stays true for long. As blood dries it darkens, becomes brown. Brown is an aspect of red, sometimes called old red. The red ochres of the land are the dried blood of the Great Mother Earth, and though some can be almost as bright as new red, they are all old red.
“Covered with the red of blood from your mother’s womb, you came into this world, Shevonar. Covered with the red earth of the Great Mother’s womb, you shall return to her to be born again into the next world as you were born into this one,” the First said as she sprinkled the body of Shevonar liberally from head to toe with the powdered red iron ore.
“The fifth primary color is dark, sometimes called black,” Zelandoni said, making Ayla wonder what the second, third, and fourth Sacred Colors were. “Dark is the color of night, the color in deep caves, the color of charcoal, after fire has burned the life out of wood. Some say charcoal black is really the darkest shade of old red. It is the color that overcomes the color of life as it ages. Just as life becomes death, red becomes black, dark. Dark is the absence of life; it is the color of death. It does not even have an ephemeral life; there are no black flowers. Deep caves show the color in its true form.
“Shevonar, the body your elan inhabited has died and will go into the black under the ground, will return to the dark earth of the Mother, but your elan, your spirit, will go to the world of the spirits, will return to the Mother, the Original Source of Life. Take with you the spirit of this food we have given you to sustain you on your Journey to the spirit world.” The large, impressive woman picked up the dish of food that had been left for him, held it up to show, then put it down beside him and sprinkled it with red ochre powder.
“Take with you your favorite spear to hunt the spirit animals for sustenance.” The donier put his spear beside him and sprinkled it with red ochre. “Take with you your tools to make new spears for the hunters of the next world.” She put his spear-shaft straightener under his hand, stiffened with rigor mortis, and sprinkled it Math the red powder. “Do not forget the skills you learned in this world, make use of them in the next world. Do not grieve for your life here. Spirit of Shevonar, go freely, go confidently. Do not look back. Do not linger. Your next life awaits you.”
The grave goods were arranged around him, the food in its containers was placed on his stomach, then the grass-mat shroud was wrapped around him and the cords that were threaded through the ends at head and foot were pulled tight, making it look like a cocoon. The long cords were then wrapped around him, which kept everything together and gave the body and its accoutrements a lumpy definition. The netting was pulled up and attached to either end of a pole, which had recently been a small, straight tree. The bark still on the tree helped to keep the hammock with its macabre bundle from sliding.
Then the same men who had dug a pit in the sacred burial ground lifted the body of Shevonar and carried it between them. Joharran was at the front with the pole resting on his left shoulder, and Rushemar slightly behind him and on the other side rested it on his right. Solaban was at the rear on the same side as Joharran, but the pole rested on padding on his shoulder, since he was not as tall as Jondalar, who followed him.
The One Who Was First led the way toward the sacred burial ground. The men carrying the body followed her, and the rest of the Zelandonia placed themselves around the pallbearers. Relona with her two children and then Ranokol walked behind the swaying hammock. The rest of the people fell in behind in the same order they had assumed for the feast.
Ayla again walked with Marthona near the front. She noticed Laramar watching her as he headed toward the last of the people of the Ninth Cave, which put him in front of the leaders of the Third Cave. Although Manvelar tried to keep a slight distance behind the Ninth to create a gap that would separate the two Caves, Laramar, along with his tall, bony woman and her large brood of children, slowed down enough to keep the gap in front of him. Ayla became convinced that he did it on purpose to give the impression that he was the first of the Cave behind him rather than the last of the one ahead, though of course everyone knew his status and to which Cave he belonged.
The long line of people followed the path in single file as it narrowed in front of Big Rock, then used the few well-placed flat
tish stepping-stones to traverse Fish Creek, which ran down the middle of Little Valley. As the path closed in again in front of High Rock, they stayed in line until they reached the Crossing, but instead of continuing south after gaining the opposite bank, as they had done before to go to Two Rivers Rock, they turned left back toward the north and followed another trail.
No longer constrained by a narrow track between river and rock wall, they spread out and walked two or three abreast through the level field of the floodplain, then began to climb the slope of the rolling hills Ayla had seen across The River. The sun was descending in the west, nearing the tops of the cliffs behind when they came to an outcrop and a small, secluded, fairly level depression. The procession slowed and then stopped.
Ayla turned and looked back the way they had come. The view swept down a field of fresh summer green that stopped at the shadow cast by the sun setting behind the steep cliffs. The natural soft yellow of the limestone, streaked with the black wash of leached-out impurities, was darkening to deep purple, and a somber gloom cloaked the water flowing at the foot of the stone ramparts. It stretched across The River to shroud the row of brush and trees that lined its bank, though the tops of the tallest trees still threw an abbreviated silhouette beyond the creeping darkness.
Seen from this perspective, the wall of stone, fringed at the top with grass and an occasional bush, displayed a unified moody grandeur she hadn’t expected, and she tried to identify the places whose names she had learned. Toward the south, crowding close to the water’s edge, the sheer walls of High Rock and Big Rock straddled Little Valley. The cliffs that pulled back to create the recessed rear wall of the Gather Field led then to the sculptural relief of the shelters in the cliff of Down River and then, just as The River took a sharp turn to the east, the huge overhanging stone ledge that housed the Ninth Cave.
As they started to move again, Ayla noticed several people carrying torches. “Should I have brought a torch, Willamar?” she asked the man walking beside her. “It will probably be dark before we return.”
“It’s supposed to be dark,” Marthona said; she was walking on the other side of Willamar, “and there will be many torches there. When people leave the burial ground, they will light torches to find their way, but they will not all go in the same direction. Some will go one way, some another, some will go down to The River, and some uphill toward a place we call Lookout. As Shevonar’s elan and any other spirits that are near watch us go, they may try to follow us. We need to confuse them so that if they manage to get beyond the boundaries, they won’t know which lights to follow.”
As the procession approached the burial ground, Ayla noticed the moving light of flickering fire from behind the outcrop and an aromatic scent detectable from quite a distance away. They moved around the obstruction toward a circle of lit torches that produced as much smoke as light. Drawing closer, she saw the boundaries, a circle of carved poles just beyond the torches that surrounded and defined the sacred area.
“The torches have a very strong smell,” she commented.
“Yes. The zelandonia make special torches for burials. It keeps the spirits contained so people can enter the burial ground without danger, or perhaps I should say without as much danger,” Marthona explained. “And if there is a smell, the torches make it easier to bear.”
The Zelandonia of the six Caves placed themselves at equidistant intervals around the inside of the circle, offering another layer of protection. The One Who Was First stood at the head of the grave pit, then the four pallbearers with their sad burden carried the hammock into the area encircled by the torchlight. The two men in front walked around the right side of the hole they had dug until they faced the First and stopped, leaving the other two men at the foot.
The four men waited silently, holding the body in the burial hammock hanging over the grave. Other family members and the leaders of Shevonar’s Cave filled up the area within the torchlit circle, the rest of the people crowded around the outside of the boundaries created by the carved poles.
Then the Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave stepped forward. She paused, and for a moment all was still. Not a single sound was made by the entire throng. Into the silence came the distant roar of a cave lion, followed by the cackle of a hyena, which seemed to set the mood. The next sound she heard was eerie and high-pitched. Ayla was stunned. She felt a shiver down her back; she was not alone.
She had heard the otherworldly music of a flute before, but not for a long time. Manen had played the instrument at the Mamutoi Summer Meeting. She recalled that she had performed the traditional burial rituals of the Clan for Rydag, the boy who reminded her of her own son, because they would not allow the child of mixed spirits that Nezzie had adopted to have a Mamutoi burial. But Manen had played his flute in spite of them as she moved through the silent, formal sign language to implore the Great Cave Bear and her totem spirit to take Rydag to the next world of the Clan.
She found herself remembering Iza’s burial, when Mog-ur had made those signs in his modified one-handed way over her grave. Then Ayla recalled his death. She had gone inside the cave after the earthquake and found him with his skull crushed by falling stones, lying on top of Iza’s burial cairn. She made the signs for him, since no one else had dared to go into the cave with the earthquake still rumbling aftershocks.
But the flute evoked another memory. She had heard the instrument before she ever heard Manen play his flute. It was during the ritual Cave Bear Ceremony at the Clan Gathering. The mog-ur of another clan had played a similar instrument, though the high-pitched warbling sound that symbolized the spiritual voice of Ursus had a different tonal quality from the one Manen had played and the one she heard now.
She was distracted from her thoughts by the First, who began to speak in a rich, resonant voice: “Great Earth Mother, First Progenitor, You have called Your child back to You. He was called in sacrifice to the Spirit of Bison, and the Zelandonii, Your children who live in the southwest of this land, ask that this one life be enough. He was a brave hunter, a good mate, a maker of fine spears. He honored You well in this life. Guide him back to You safely, we beseech You. His mate grieves for him, her children loved him, the people respected him. He was called to serve You while in his prime. Let the Spirit of Bison be satisfied, O Doni, let this one be enough.”
“Let it be enough, O Doni,” the rest of the Zelandonia intoned. It was repeated again by the people of all the gathered Caves, more or less in unison.
The measured beat of something pounding on something began. The sound was slightly dulled—or at least not as crisp—because several instruments were playing together. The objects consisted of skins stretched very tight over one side of circular hoops, with a handle to hold it. The eerie sound of the flute joined in, weaving in and around the steady beat of the drums. The evocative tone seemed to encourage the emotional release of tears. Relona began to cry and keen her misery and grief once more. Soon all the people were wailing and keening, with tears in their eyes.
Then a voice joined in, a full sonorous contralto singing without words but fitting into the rhythm of the drums and blending with the flute, sounding almost like an instrument. The first time Ayla heard anyone sing was when she went to live with the Mamutoi. Most of the Lion Camp sang, at least along with a group. She had enjoyed listening to them and tried to join in, but singing was something she couldn’t seem to do. She could hum in a kind of monotone, but she could not carry a tune. She recalled that some people were much better singers than others, and had admired them, but she had never before heard so rich and vibrant a voice. The voice belonged to Zelandoni, the One Who Was First, and Ayla was overwhelmed.
The two men who held the pole in front shifted around to face the two men behind, then they lifted the pole from their shoulders and began to lower the swaying burial hammock. The grave pit was not very deep, and the small tree pole was longer than its length. By the time both ends of it were on the ground, the body was already resting on the bottom of the
hole. They untied the slack cords of the netting and dropped them in as well.
They dragged the hide upon which the earth from the grave had been piled closer to the hole again, and wedged the tree pole upright into the grave below the foot, using some of the loose dirt to support it. Another, shorter pole was placed at the head of the man, one that had been carved and painted with red ochre in the shape of Shevonar’s abelan. His identifying mark would indicate the place where he was buried and act as a warning that his body was laid to rest there and that his elan might still be nearby.
Relona walked forward stiffly, trying to stay in control of herself. She went to the pile, then, almost angrily, grabbed some dirt in each hand and threw it into the grave. Two older women helped each of her two children to do the same, then picked up handfuls themselves and dropped it on the wrapped body. Then all the people came forward, each taking a couple of handfuls of earth and tossing it into the grave. By the time everyone had passed by, adding their dirt, the hole was filled in and loose earth was heaped into a mound.
A few went back to add a little more. Then, suddenly, Relona fell to her knees, and tears nearly blinding her, she threw herself on the soft earth over the grave, heaving great sobs. Her eldest child walked back to her and stood there crying, knuckling his eyes to wipe away tears. Then the youngest, looking lost and bewildered, ran to the grave and pulled on her mother’s arm, trying to make her get up and comfort her.
Ayla wondered where the two older women were and why no one tried to help and console the children.
16
After a while, Ayla saw the mother begin to respond to the young child’s fearful sobs. Relona pushed herself away from the grave and, without even brushing herself off, took her daughter into her arms. The older one sat down and wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck. She put an arm around him, too, and all three sat there crying together.