by Jean M. Auel
“Did you know the mate of your mother wanted to be a trader before he met her, Mejera?” Willamar said. “He went on a few trips with me, then he decided he didn’t want to spend so much time away from her, or you, after you were born.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she said, pleased to learn something about her mother and her mother’s mate.
No wonder he’s a good trader, Ayla thought. He has a way with people. He can make anyone feel comfortable. Mejera seemed a little more relaxed, but still a bit overwhelmed by all the attention. Ayla understood how she felt.
“Proleva, I saw some people starting to dry meat from the hunt,” Ayla said. “I’m not sure how meat is divided, or who is supposed to preserve it, but I’d like to help if it’s appropriate.”
The woman smiled. “Of course you can help, if you want. It’s a lot of work, we’d welcome your help.”
“I know I would,” Folara said. “It can be a long, tedious job, unless there are a lot of people working on it. Then it can be fun.”
“The meat itself and half the fat is for everyone to use as they need,” Proleva continued, “but the rest of the animal, the hide, horns, antlers, and all, belongs to the person who killed it. I think you and Jondalar each have a megaceros and a bison, Ayla. Jondalar killed the bison who sacrificed Shevonar, but that one was given back to the Mother. We buried it near his grave. The leaders decided to give both Jondalar and you another one. Animals are marked when they’re butchered, usually with charcoal. By the way, they didn’t know your abelan, and you were busy with Shevonar, so someone asked Zelandoni of the Third. He made a temporary one for you so your hides and other parts could be marked.”
Jondalar smiled. “What does it look like?” He was always conscious of his own enigmatic abelan and curious about the name marks of others.
“I think he saw you as protective or sheltering, Ayla,” Proleva said. “Here, I’ll show you.” She took a stick, smoothed the dirt, and drew a line straight down. Then she added a line starting near the top and slanting down somewhat on one side, and a third line matching it on the other side. “It reminds me of a tent or shelter of some kind, something to get under if it was raining.”
“I think you’re right,” Jondalar said. “It’s not a bad abelan for you, Ayla. You do tend to be protective and helpful, especially if someone is sick or hurt.”
“I can draw my abelan,” Jaradal said. Everyone smiled indulgently. The stick was given to him, and he was allowed to make the drawing. “Do you have one?” he said to Mejera.
“I’m sure she does, Jaradal, and she will probably be happy to show you. Later,” Proleva said, gently reprimanding her son. A little attention was all right, but she didn’t want him to get in the habit of demanding attention from the adults around him.
“What do you think of your abelan, Ayla?” Jondalar said. He wondered about her reaction to being assigned a Zelandonii symbol.
“Since I didn’t get an elandon with an abelan marked on it when I was born, at least not that I can remember,” Ayla said, “it’s as good a mark as any. I don’t mind using it as my abelan.”
“Did you ever get any kind of mark from the Mamutoi?” Proleva asked, wondering if Ayla already had an abelan. It was always interesting to learn how other people did things.
“When I was adopted by the Mamutoi, Talut cut a mark on my arm to draw blood so he could make a mark with it on the plaque he wore on his chest during ceremonies,” Ayla said.
“But it wasn’t a special mark?” Joharran said.
“It was special to me. I still have the scar,” she said, showing the mark on her arm. Then she added a thought that occurred to her: “It’s interesting how people use different ways of showing who they are, and who they belong to. When I was adopted by the Clan, I was given my amulet bag with a piece of red ochre in it, and when they name a person, the mog-ur makes a line in red from the forehead to the end of the nose. That’s when he tells everyone, especially the mother, what the baby’s totem is, by making the totem mark with salve on the infant.”
“Are you saying your people of the Clan have marks showing who they are?” Zelandoni said. “Like abelans?”
“I guess they are like abelans. When a boy becomes a man, the mog-ur cuts the mark of his totem on him, then rubs in a special ash to make it a tattoo. Girls are not usually cut on the skin, because when they grow up, they will bleed from the inside, but I was marked by the cave lion when he chose me. I have four marks from his claws on my leg. That’s the Clan mark for a cave lion, and that’s how Mog-ur knew he was my totem, even though it’s not usually a female totem mark. It is a man’s, given to a boy who is destined to be a strong hunter. When I was accepted as the Woman Who Hunts, Mog-ur made a cut here,” she put her finger on her throat, just above the breastbone, “to draw blood and used it to mark over the scars on my leg.” She showed the scars on her left thigh.
“Then you already have an abelan. That’s your mark, those four lines,” Willamar said.
“I think you are right,” Ayla said. “I don’t feel anything about the other mark, maybe because it’s just a mark of convenience, so that people will know who to give some hides to. Even though my Clan totem mark is not a Zelandonii sign, it is a mark that is special to me. It meant that I was adopted, that I belonged. I would like to use it as my abelan.”
Jondalar thought about what Ayla said about belonging. She had lost everything, she didn’t know to whom she was born, or who her people were. Then she had lost the people who raised her. She had referred to herself as “Ayla of No People” when she’d met the Mamutoi. It made him realize how important belonging was to her.
17
There was an insistent tap on the panel beside the entrance drape. It woke Jondalar, but he lay in his sleeping roll, wondering why someone wasn’t answering it. Then he realized that no one but him seemed to be home. He got up and called out, “Be there in a moment,” while he was putting on a few clothes. He was surprised to see Jonokol, the artist who was Zelandoni’s acolyte, only because the young man seldom paid a visit without his mentor. “Come in,” he said.
“The Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave says it is time,” Jonokol said.
Jondalar’s brow creased. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood what Jonokol meant, but he had a good idea, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d had his share of the other world. He didn’t really want to have to deal with that place again.
“Did Zelandoni say what it was time for?” Jondalar asked.
Jonokol smiled at the tall man’s sudden nervousness. “She said you would know.”
“I’m afraid I do,” Jondalar said, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Can you wait until I find something to eat, Jonokol?”
“Zelandoni always says it’s best if you don’t.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jondalar said. “But I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea to wash my mouth out with. I’m still tasting sleep.”
“They may have some tea for you to drink,” Jonokol said.
“I’ll bet they do, but I don’t think it’s mint, and that’s what I like first thing in the morning.”
“Zelandoni’s teas are often flavored with mint.”
“Flavored, yes, but it’s probably not the main ingredient.”
Jonokol just smiled.
“All right,” Jondalar said with a wry grin. “I’ll come right away. I hope no one minds if I go to pass water first.”
“It’s not necessary to hold your water,” the young acolyte said, “but bring something warm to wear.”
When Jondalar came back, he was both surprised and pleased to see Ayla waiting with Jonokol, tying the sleeves of a warm tunic around her waist. Jonokol had probably told her to bring something warm, too. Watching her, it occurred to him that the night before last was the first time he had not slept with Ayla since he was captured by the S’Armunai on their Journey, and it left him feeling rather unsettled.
“Hello, wom
an,” he whispered in her ear when he rubbed her cheek with his in greeting, then embraced her. “Where did you go this morning?”
“To empty the night basket,” Ayla said. “When I came back I saw Jonokol and he said Zelandoni wanted us, so I went to ask Folara if she would keep Wolf. She said she’d find some children to keep him occupied. I went down to check on the horses earlier. I heard some other horses nearby. I wonder if we should build a surround of some kind to keep them.”
“Perhaps,” Jondalar said. “Especially when it’s time for Whinney’s Pleasures. I’d hate to have a herd try to capture her, Racer would probably try to follow her.”
“She’ll have her foal first,” Ayla said.
Jonokol listened, interested in hearing about the horses. They had obviously gained knowledge in their association with them. Ayla and Jondalar left with Jonokol. When they reached the stone front porch of the Ninth Cave, Jondalar noticed that the sun was quite high.
“I didn’t know it was so late,” he said. “I wonder why someone didn’t get me up sooner?”
“Zelandoni suggested that you be allowed to sleep since you may be up late tonight,” Jonokol said.
Jondalar took a deep breath and blew it out of his mouth as he shook his head. “Where are we going, by the way?” he said as they walked beside the acolyte along the ledge toward Down River.
“To Fountain Rocks,” Jonokol said.
Jondalar’s eyes opened wide with surprise. Fountain Rocks—a cliff that featured two caves and the immediate area around it—was not the home of any particular Cave of Zelandonii; it was much more important than that. It was one of the most sacred places in the entire region. Though no one lived there regularly, if any group could call it home, it was the zelandonia, the Ones Who Served, for this was a place blessed and sanctified by the Great Earth Mother Herself.
“I am going to stop for a drink of water,” Jondalar said emphatically as they approached the bridge over the creek of fresh spring water that divided the Ninth Cave from Down River. He wasn’t going to let Jonokol talk him out of quenching his thirst, even if he had let the man dissuade him from having his morning cup of mint tea.
Near the streamlet a few feet from the bridge, a post had been pounded into the ground. A drinking cup made of cattail leaves torn into strips and woven watertight was attached to it with a cord; if it wasn’t attached, it was often lost. The cup was changed periodically as it became worn, but as long as Jondalar could remember, one had been there. It had been learned long ago that the sight of the fresh sparkling water invariably inspired thirst, and while a person could bend over and reach in with hands to get a drink, it was much easier to have a cup handy.
They all had a drink, then continued along the well-used trail. They forded The River at the Crossing, and at Two Rivers Rock turned into Grass Valley, crossed the second river, then followed the path alongside it. People from other Caves waved and greeted them as they passed by, but made no attempt to delay them. All the zelandonia of the area, including the acolytes, had already gone to Fountain Rocks, and everyone had a good idea where the two people with Zelandoni’s acolyte were going.
They also had some idea why. In the tight-knit community, word had gotten out that they had brought back something that might help the zelandonia to find the wandering spirit of Jondalar’s dead brother, Thonolan. Though they knew it was important to help guide a newly liberated elan to its proper place in the world of the spirits, the idea of entering the next world before they were called by the Mother was not something most people wanted to do. It was fearful enough to think about helping Shevonar’s elan, who had just passed on and was probably nearby, but to look for the spirit of someone who had died far away and a long time ago was something they didn’t even want to contemplate.
Not many, except for the zelandonia—and not all of those—would have wanted to trade places with Jondalar or Ayla. Most people were happy to let the Ones Who Served The Mother deal with the world of the spirits. But no one else could do it; only they knew where Jondalar’s brother had died. Even the One Who Was First knew this would be an exhausting day, though she was intrigued and wondered if they would be able to find Thonolan’s roving spirit.
As Ayla, Jondalar, and Jonokol continued upstream, an imposing outcrop of rock loomed ahead on the left. The massive rock stood out with such prominence that it seemed almost a monolith, but a closer look revealed that it was only the first spur of a progression of cliffs that pulled back in a line at right angles to Grass River. The stately stone at the head of the cliffs reared up from the valley floor, rounded to a bulge in the middle, narrowed toward the top, then abruptly flared out into a flat-topped jaunty cap.
Moving around to the front and looking straight on at the rock that extended out ahead, one could, with a little imagination, envision in the cracks and rounded shapes, the cap as hair, a high forehead below the cap, a flattened nose, and two nearly closed eyes enigmatically looking over a slope of scree and brush. To those who knew how to look, the subtly anthropomorphic front view was understood to be a hidden face of the Mother, one of the few visages of Herself She ever chose to show, and even that was well disguised. No one could ever look directly upon the face of the Mother, not so much as a likeness of it, and even mysteriously disguised, Her face held unspeakable power.
The row of cliffs flanked a smaller valley with a creek down the middle that ran into Grass River. The source of the small stream was a spring that bubbled out of the ground with such energy, it created a small fountain with a deep pool surrounding it in the middle of a wooded glen. The common name was Fountain of the Deep, and the small waterway running from it was called Fountain Creek, but the zelandonia had other names for them, which most people also knew. The spring and pool were the Birth Waters of the Mother, and the creek was the Blessed Water. They were known to have great powers to heal and particularly to help women conceive, if used œrrectly.
A path over twelve hundred feet long climbed up the side of the stone wall well beyond the leading spur to a terrace not far from the top, with a small rock overhang that sheltered the mouths of two caves. The numerous cavities in this region of limestone cliffs were sometimes called “caves,” but were thought of as hollowed-out spaces in the rock and often referred to as “hollows” as well. Conversely, an especially long or deep cave was sometimes referred to as a “deep.” The opening to the left on the small terrace penetrated the rock only twenty feet or so, and was used as a living space for those who stayed there from time to time, usually zelandonia. It was generally known as Fountain Hollow, but some referred to it as Doni’s Hollow.
The cave on the right led to a deep passage that went four hundred feet into the heart of the huge cliff, with chambers, alcoves, niches, and other passages leading off the main corridor. This was the place that was so sacred that its esoteric name was usually not even voiced. The site was so well-known, and so revered, it wasn’t necessary to declare its sanctity and power to the mundane world. If anything, those who knew its true meaning preferred to understate it, not make an issue of it in ordinary existence. That was the reason people referred to the cliffs simply as Fountain Rocks, and why the cave was called the Deep Cave in Fountain Rocks or, sometimes, Doni’s Deep.
It was not the only sacred site in the region. Most caves had some measure of sanctity attached to them, and some places outside of caves were also blessed, but the deep cave in Fountain Rocks was one of the most exalted. Jondalar knew of a few others that equaled Fountain Rocks, but none was more important. As they continued up the cliff with Jonokol, Jondalar felt a combination of excitement and dread and, as they approached the terrace, a frisson of fearful anticipation. This wasn’t something he really wanted to do, but for all his apprehension, he did wonder if Zelandoni could find the free spirit of his brother, what would be expected of him, and how it would feel.
When they reached the high terrace in front of the caves, two more acolytes met them, a man and a woman. They had been waiting just insi
de the mouth of the deep cave on the right. Ayla paused for a moment and turned around to see where she had come from. The lofty stone porch overlooked Fountain Creek Valley and part of Grass Valley with its river, and the panorama was impressive, but somehow, when they entered the passage, the closer views within the dark cavity were more daunting.
Especially in daytime, stepping into the cave brought an immediate transformation, a shift in perspective from an open, expansive view to a close, narrow corridor, from stone-reflecting sunlight to disquieting dark. The change went beyond the physical or external. Especially to those who understood and accepted the inherent power of the place, it was a metamorphosis that went from easy familiarity to apprehensive fear, but also a transition into something rich and wondrous.
Only a few feet of the ingress could be seen from the light outside, but as eyes became accustomed to the diminished light at the entry, the rock walls of the constricted passage suggested the way into the shadowy interior. A small vestibule just beyond the opening held a lighted stone lamp resting on a projecting piece of the wall, and several unlit lamps. In a natural stone niche below it were torches. Jonokol and the other young man picked up a lamp, then a thin, dry stick, which they held to the flame of the burning lamp until it ignited. With it, they each lit the moss wicks that were resting against the edge of the bowl of a lamp, opposite the handle, soaking in the slightly congealed fat. The woman lit a torch and beckoned to them.
“Watch your footing,” she said, holding the torch lower to show the uneven floor and the wet, glistening clay that filled in some of the spaces between the rocks that were jutting up. “It can be slippery.”
When they started into the passage, picking their way carefully across the uneven floor, there was still a suggestion of light from the outside. It diminished quickly. After something more than a hundred feet the darkness was complete, held back only by the soft glow of small flames. A sigh of moving air strayed down from the stalactites suspended from the ceiling, bringing a chill of fear as the tiny lights of the lamps flickered. They knew that once into the depths, if the fire went out, a blackness more complete than the darkest night would obscure all vision. Only hands and feet on cold, damp rock could show the way, and might lead only to a dead-end passage rather than the way out.