No book published is ever solely the work of the author. Assistance comes from a variety of sources in as many different ways. But some contributions to my work came from people I have never met and probably never will. I am grateful, nonetheless, to the citizens of the city of Portland, and the country of Multnomah, Oregon, whose taxes support the Multnomah County Library, without whose reference materials this book would not have been written. I am also grateful to the archaeologists, anthropologists, and other specialists who wrote the books from which I gathered most of the information for the setting and background of this novel.
There were many who helped more directly. Among them, I want especially to thank:
Gin DeCamp, the first to hear my story idea, who was a friend when I needed one, who read a fat manuscript with enthusiasm and a meticulous eye for errors, and who sculpted a symbol for the series. John DeCamp, friend and fellow writer, who knew the agonies and the ecstasies, and had the uncanny knack of calling exactly when I had to talk to someone who did. Karen Auel, who encouraged her mother more than she ever knew because she laughed where she was supposed to laugh and cried where she was supposed to cry, though it was a first draft.
Cathy Humble, of whom I asked the greatest favor one can ask of a friend—honest criticism—because I valued her sense of words. She did the impossible; her critique was both acutely perceptive and gentle. Deanna Sterett, for getting caught up in the story, and who knew enough about hunting to point out some oversights. Lana Elmer, who listened with unflagging attention to hours of dissertation and still liked the story. Anna Bacus, who offered her unique insights and her sharp eye for spelling.
Not all my research was done in libraries. My husband and I made many field trips to learn firsthand various aspects of living close to nature. In the line of direct experience, special thanks are due to Frank Heyl, Arctic Survival Expert with the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, who showed me how to make my bed in a snow cave and then expected me to lie in it! I survived that cold January night on the slopes of Mount Hood and learned much more about survival from Mr. Heyl, who has my vote as the one I’d most like to be around during the next Ice Age.
I am indebted to Andy Van’t Hul for sharing with me his special knowledge of living in the natural environment. He showed me firemaking without matches, axes made of stone, cord twining and basket weaving, sinew and rawhide, and how to knap my own stone blade that cuts through leather as though it were butter.
Gratitude beyond measure goes to Jean Naggar, a literary agent so good she turned my wildest fantasy into reality and then bettered it. And to Carole Baron, my shrewd, sharp, and sensitive editor, who believed in the reality, then took my very best effort and made it better.
Finally, there are two individuals who had no idea they were helping me, yet whose assistance was invaluable. I have since met one of them, but the first time I heard writer and teacher Don James talk about the writing of fiction, he didn’t know he was talking directly to me. He thought he was addressing a whole group. The words he said were exactly those I needed to hear. Don James didn’t know it, but I might never have finished this book if it wasn’t for him.
The other is a man I know only through his book, Ralph S. Solecki, author of Shanidar (Alfred A. Knopf, New York). The story of his excavation of Shanidar Cave and discovery of several Neanderthal skeletons profoundly moved me. He gave me a perspective of prehistoric cave man I might not otherwise have had and a better understanding of the meaning of humanity. But I must do more than thank Professor Solecki—I must apologize for one instance of literary license I took with his facts for the sake of my fiction. In real life, it was a Neanderthal who put flowers in the grave.