A voice called to him, his mother’s voice, but distant, wavering across a fitful wind. Jondalar was home, but home was strange; familiar, yet unfamiliar. He reached beside him. The place was empty! In a panic, he bolted up, fully awake.
Looking around, Jondalar recognized Ayla’s cave. The windbreak across the entrance had come loose at one end and was flapping in the wind. Chill gusts of air were blowing into the small cave, but the sun was streaming in through the entrance and the hole above it. He quickly drew on trousers and tunic, and then noticed the steaming cup of tea near the fireplace and beside it, a fresh twig stripped of its bark.
He smiled. How did she do it? he thought. How did she always manage to have hot tea ready and waiting for him when he woke up? At least here, at her cave, she did. At the Lion Camp, there was always something going on, and meals were usually shared with others. He as often took his morning drink at the Lion Hearth or the cooking hearth as the Mammoth Hearth, and then, someone else usually joined them. He didn’t notice, there, whether she always had a hot drink waiting for him when he woke up, but when he thought about it, he knew she did. It was never her way to make an issue of it. It was just always there, like so many other things she did for him without his ever having to ask.
He picked up the cup and sipped. There was mint in it—she knew he liked mint in the morning—chamomile, too, and something else he couldn’t quite discern. The tea had a reddish tinge, rose hips perhaps?
How easy it is to fall into old habits, he thought. He had always made a game out of trying to guess what was in her morning tea. He picked up the twig and chewed on an end as he went outside, and used the chewed end to scrub his teeth. He swished his mouth out with a drink of tea, as he walked to the far end of the ledge to pass his water. He tossed the twig and spat out the tea, then stood at the edge, musing, watching his steaming stream arc down.
The wind was not strong, and the morning sun reflecting off the light-colored rock gave an impression of warmth. He walked across the uneven surface to the jutting tip and looked down at the small river below. Ice was building up along its edges, but it still ran swiftly around the sharp bend, which shifted its generally southward direction to the east for a few miles before turning back to its southerly course. On his left, the peaceful valley stretched out alongside the river, and he noticed Whinney and Racer grazing nearby. The view upstream, on his right, was entirely different. Beyond the bone pile, at the foot of the wall, and the rocky beach, high stone walls closed in and the river flowed at the bottom of a deep gorge. He remembered swimming upstream once, as far as he could go, to the foot of a tumultuous waterfall.
He saw Ayla come into view as she ascended the steep path, and smiled. “Where have you been?”
A few more steps up and his question was answered, without her saying a word. She was carrying two fat, almost white, ptarmigan by their feathered feet. “I was standing right where you are and saw them in the meadow,” she said, holding them out. “I thought fresh meat might be nice for a change. I started a fire in my cooking pit down on the beach. I’ll pluck them and start them cooking after we finish breakfast. Oh, here’s another firestone I found.”
“Are there many on the beach?” he asked.
“Maybe not as many as before. I had to look for this.”
“I think I’ll go down and look for some later.”
Ayla went in to finish preparing breakfast. The meal included grains cooked with red huckleberries that she had found still clinging to bushes that were bare of leaves. The birds had not left many, and she had to pick diligently to gather a few handfuls, but she was pleased to find them.
“That’s what it was!” Jondalar said, as he was finishing another cup of tea. “You put red huckleberries in the tea! Mint, chamomile, and red huckleberries.”
She smiled agreement, and he felt pleased with himself for solving the little puzzle.
After the morning meal, they both went down to the beach, and while Ayla prepared the birds for roasting in the stone oven, Jondalar began searching for the small nodules of iron pyrite that were scattered on the beach. He was still searching when she went back up to the cave. He also found some good-sized chunks of flint, and set them aside. By midmorning, he had accumulated a pile of the firestones, and was bored with staring at the stony beach. He walked around the jutting wall, and seeing the mare and the young horse some distance down the valley, he started toward them.
As he got closer, he noticed that they were both looking in the direction of the steppes. Several horses were at the top of the slope looking back at them. Racer took a few steps toward the wild herd, his neck arched and his nose quivering. Jondalar reacted without thinking.
“Go on! Get away from here!” he shouted, racing toward them, waving his arms.
Startled, the horses jumped back, neighing and snorting, and raced off. The last, a hay-colored stallion, charged toward the man, then reared as if in warning, before galloping after the rest.
Jondalar turned and walked back to Whinney and Racer. Both were nervous. They, too, had been startled, and they had sensed the herd’s panic. He patted Whinney and put his arm around Racer’s neck.
“It’s all right, boy,” he said to the young horse, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want them enticing you away before we had a chance to become good friends.” He scratched and stroked the animal with affection. “Imagine what it would be like to ride a stallion like that yellow one,” he mused aloud. “He would be difficult to ride, but then he wouldn’t let me scratch him like this, either, would he? What would I have to do for you to let me ride your back and go where I want you to go? When should I begin? Should I try to ride you now, or should I wait? You’re not full grown yet, but you will be soon. I’d better ask Ayla. She must know. Whinney always seems to understand her. I wonder, do you understand me at all, Racer?”
When Jondalar finally started back to the cave, Racer followed him, bumping him playfully and nuzzling his hand, which greatly pleased the man. The young horse did seem to want to be friends. Racer trailed him all the way back, and up the path into the cave.
“Ayla, do you have anything I can give Racer? Like some grain or something?” he asked as soon as he went in.
Ayla was sitting near the bed with an assortment of piles and mounds of objects arrayed around her. “Why don’t you give him some of those little apples in that bowl over there? I looked over some, and those have bruises,” she said.
Jondalar scooped out a handful of the small, round tart fruits, and fed them to Racer one at a time. After a few more pats, the man walked over to Ayla. He was followed by the friendly horse.
“Jondalar, push Racer out of there! He might step on something!”
He turned around and bumped into the young animal. “That’s enough, now, Racer,” the man said, walking back with him to the other side of the cave opening, where the young stallion and his dam customarily stayed. But when Jondalar went to leave, he was followed again. He took Racer back to his place again, but had no more luck getting him to stay. “Now that he’s so friendly, how do I get him to stop?”
Ayla had been watching the antics, smiling. “You might try pouring a little water in his bowl, or putting some grain in his feeding tray.”
Jondalar did both, and when the horse was finally distracted enough, walked back to Ayla, carefully watching behind him to make sure the young horse was no longer there. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m trying to decide what to take with me and what to leave behind,” she explained. “What do you think I should give Tulie at the adoption ceremony? It has to be something especially nice.”
Jondalar looked over the piles and stacks of things Ayla had made to occupy herself during the empty nights and long cold winters she had spent alone in the cave. Even when she lived with the Clan, she had become recognized for her skill and the quality of her work, and during her years in the valley, she’d had little else to do. She gave extra time and careful attention to each project, to make it last. The results showed.
He picked up a bowl from a stack of them. It was deceptively simple. It was almost perfectly circular and had been made from a single piece of wood. The quality of the finish was so smooth it almost felt alive. She had told him how she made them. The process was essentially the same as any he knew of; the difference was the care and attention to detail. First, she gouged out the rough shape with a stone adze, then carved it closer with a hand-held flint knife. With a rounded stone and sand, she smoothed both inside and out until hardly a ripple could be felt, and gave it a final finish with scouring horsetail fern.
Her baskets, whether open weave or watertight, had the same quality of simplicity and expert craftsmanship. There was no use of dyes or colors, but textural interest had been created by changing the style of weave, and by using natural color variations of the fibers. Mats for the ground had the same characteristic. Coils of ropes and twines of sinew and bark, no matter what size, were even and uniform, as were the long thongs, cut in a spiral from a single hide.
The hides she made into leather were soft and supple, but more than anything, he was impressed with her furs. It was one thing to make buckskin pliable by scraping off the grain with the fur on the outside, as well as scraping the inside, but with the fur left on, hides were usually stiffer. Ayla’s were not only luxurious on the fur side but velvety soft and yielding on the inside.
“What are you giving Nezzie?” he asked.
“Food, like those apples, and containers to hold it.”
“That’s a good idea. What were you thinking of giving Tulie?”
“She is very proud of Deegie’s leather, so I don’t think I should give her that, and I don’t want to give her food like Nezzie. Nothing too practical. She’s headwoman. It should be something special to wear, like amber or seashells, but I don’t have anything special like that,” Ayla said.
“Yes, you do.”
“I thought about giving her the amber I found, but that’s a sign from my totem. I can’t give that away.”
“I don’t mean the amber. She probably has plenty of amber. Give her fur. It was the first thing she mentioned.”
“But she must have many furs, too.”
“No furs are as beautiful and special as yours, Ayla. Only once in my life before have I ever seen anything like them. I’m sure she never has. The one I saw was made by a flathe—by a Clan woman.”
By evening, Ayla had made some hard decisions, and the accumulation of years of work was settling into two piles. The larger one was to be left behind, along with the cave and the valley. The smaller one was all she would take with her … and her memories. It was a wrenching, sometimes agonizing process that left her feeling drained. Her mood was communicated to Jondalar, who found himself thinking more of his home and his past and his life than he had for many years. His mind kept straying to painful memories he thought he’d forgotten, and wished he could. He wondered why he kept remembering now.
The evening meal was quiet. They made sporadic comments, and often lapsed into silence, each occupied with private thoughts.
“The birds are delicious, as usual,” Jondalar remarked.
“Creb liked them that way.”
She had mentioned that before. It was still hard to believe, sometimes, that she had learned so much from the flatheads she lived with. When he thought of it, though, why wouldn’t they know how to cook as well as anyone?
“My mother is a good cook. She would probably like them, too.”
Jondalar has been thinking a lot about his mother lately, Ayla thought. He said he woke up this morning dreaming about her.
“When I was growing up, she had special foods she liked to make … when she wasn’t busy with the matters of the Cave.”
“Matters of the Cave?”
“She was the leader of the Ninth Cave.”
“You told me that, but I didn’t understand. You mean she was like Tulie? A headwoman?”
“Yes, something like that. But there was no Talut, and the Ninth Cave is much bigger than the Lion Camp. Many more people.” He stopped and closed his eyes in concentration. “Maybe as many as four people for every one.
Ayla tried to think about how many that would be, then decided she would work it out later with marks on the ground, but she wondered how so many people could live together all the time. It seemed to be almost enough for a Clan Gathering.
“In the Clan, no women were leaders,” she said.
“Marthona became leader after Joconnan. Zelandoni told me she was so much a part of his leadership that after he died, everyone just turned to her. My brother, Joharran, was born to his hearth. He’s leader now, but Marthona is still an adviser … or she was when I left.”
Ayla frowned. He had spoken of them before, but she hadn’t quite understood all his relationships. “Your mother was the mate of … how did you say it? Joconnan?”
“Yes.”
“But you always talk of Dalanar.”
“I was born to his hearth.”
“So your mother was the mate of Dalanar, too.”
“Yes. She was already a leader when they mated. They were very close, people still tell stories about Marthona and Dalanar, and sing sad songs about their love. Zelandoni told me they cared too much. Dalanar didn’t want to share her with the Cave. He grew to hate the time she spent on leadership duties, but she felt a responsibility. Finally they severed the knot and he left. Later, Marthona made a new hearth with Willomar, and then gave birth to Thonolan and Folara. Dalanar traveled to the northeast, discovered a flint mine and met Jerika, and founded the First Cave of the Lanzadonii there.”
He was silent for a while. Jondalar seemed to feel a need to talk about his family, so Ayla listened even though he was repeating some things he’d said before. She got up, poured the last of the tea into their cups, added wood to the fire, then sat on the furs on the end of the bed and watched its flickering light move shadows across Jondalar’s pensive face. “What does it mean, Lanzadonii?” she asked.
Jondalar smiled. “It just means … people … children of Doni … children of the Great Earth Mother who live in the northeast, to be exact.”
“You lived there, didn’t you? With Dalanar?”
He closed his eyes. His jaw worked as he ground his teeth and his forehead knotted with pain. Ayla had seen that expression before, and wondered. He had spoken about that period in his life during the summer, but it upset him and she knew he held back. She felt a tension in the air, a great pressure building up centered on Jondalar, like a swelling of the earth getting ready to burst forth from great depths.
“Yes, I lived there,” he said, “for three years.” He jumped up suddenly, knocking over his tea, and strode to the back wall of the cave. “O Mother! It was terrible!” He put his arm up to the wall and leaned his head against it, in the dark, trying to keep himself under control. Finally, he walked back, looked down at the wet spot where the liquid had seeped into the hard-packed dirt floor, and hunkered down on one knee to right the cup. He turned it over in his hands and stared at the fire.
“Was it so bad living with Dalanar?” Ayla finally asked.
“Living with Dalanar? No.” He looked surprised at what she had said. “That isn’t what was so bad. He was glad to see me. He welcomed me to his hearth, taught me my craft right along with Joplaya, treated me like an adult … and he never said a word about it.”
“A word about what?”
Jondalar took a deep breath. “The reason I was sent there,” he said, and looked down at the cup in his hand.
As the silence deepened, the breathing of the horses filled the cave, and the loud reports of the fire burning and crackling rebounded off the stone walls. Jondalar put the cup down and stood up.
“I always was big for my age, and older than my years,” he began, striding the length of the cleared space around the fire, and then back again. “I matured young. I was no more than eleven years when the donii first came to me in a dream … and she had the face of Zolena.”
There was her name again. The woman who had meant so much to him. He’d talked about her, but only briefly and with obvious distress. Ayla hadn’t understood what caused him such anguish.
“All the young men wanted her for their donii-woman, they all wanted her to teach them. They were supposed to want her, or someone like her”—he whirled and faced Ayla—“but they weren’t supposed to love her! Do you know what it means to fall in love with your donii-woman?”
Ayla shook her head.
“She is supposed to show you, teach you, help you understand the Mother’s great Gift, to make you ready when it is your turn to bring a girl to womanhood. All women are supposed to be donii-women at least once, when they are older, just as all men are supposed to share a young woman’s First Rites, at least once. It is a sacred duty in honor of Doni.” He looked down. “But a donii-woman represents the Great Mother; you don’t fall in love and want her for your mate.” He looked up at her again. “Can you understand that? It’s forbidden. It’s like falling in love with your mother, like wanting to mate your own sister. Forgive me, Ayla. It’s almost like wanting to mate a flathead woman!”
He turned and in a few long paces was at the entrance. He pushed the windbreak aside, then his shoulders slumped and he changed his mind and walked back. He sat down beside her, and looked off into the distance.
“I was twelve, and Zolena was my donii-woman, and I loved her. And she loved me. At first it was just that she seemed to know exactly how to please me, but then it was more. I could talk to her, about anything; we liked to be with each other. She taught me about women, what pleased them, and I learned well because I loved her and wanted to please her. I loved pleasing her. We didn’t mean to fall in love, we didn’t even tell each other, at first. Then we tried to keep it a secret. But I wanted her for my mate. I wanted to live with her. I wanted her children to be the children of my hearth.”
He blinked and Ayla saw a glistening wetness at the corners of his eyes as he stared at the fire.
“Zolena kept saying I was too young, I’d get over it. Most men are at least fifteen before they seriously start looking for a woman to be a mate. I didn’t feel too young. But it didn’t matter what I wanted. I couldn’t have her. She was my donii-woman, my counselor and teacher, and she wasn’t supposed to let me fall in love with her. They blamed her more than me, but that made it worse. She wouldn’t have been blamed at all if I hadn’t been so stupid!” Jondalar said, spitting it out.
“Other men wanted her, too. Always. Whether she wanted them or not. One was always bothering her—Ladroman. She had been his donii-woman a few years before. I suppose I can’t blame him for wanting her, but she wasn’t interested in him any more. He started following us, watching us. Then one time he found us together. He threatened her, said if she didn’t go with him, he’d tell everyone about us.
“She tried to laugh him off, told him to go ahead; there was nothing to tell, she was just my donii-woman. I should have done the same, but when he mocked us with words we had said in private, I got angry. No … I did not just get angry. I lost my temper and went out of control. I hit him.”
Jondalar pounded his fist on the ground beside him, then again, and again. “I couldn’t stop hitting him. Zolena tried to make me stop. Finally, she had to get someone else to pull me away. It’s good that she did. I think I would have killed him.”
Jondalar got up and began striding back and forth again. “Then it all came out. Every sordid detail. Ladroman told everything, in public … in front of everyone. I was embarrassed to find out how long he’d been watching us, and how much he had heard. Zolena and I were both questioned”—he blushed just remembering—“and both denounced, but I hated it when she was held responsible. What made it worse was that I am my mother’s son. She was the leader of the Ninth Cave, and I disgraced her. The whole Cave was in an uproar.”
“What did she do?” Ayla asked.
“She did what she had to do. Ladroman was badly hurt. He lost several teeth. That makes it hard to chew, and women don’t like a man without teeth. Mother had to pay a large penalty for me as restitution, and when Ladroman’s mother insisted, she agreed to send me away.”
He stopped and closed his eyes, his forehead knotting with the pain of remembering. “I cried that night.” The admission was obviously difficult for him to make. “I didn’t know where I would go. I didn’t know mother had sent a runner to Dalanar to ask him to take me.”
He took a breath and continued. “Zolena left before I did. She had always been drawn to the zelandonia, and she went to join Those Who Serve the Mother. I thought about Serving, too, maybe as a carver—I thought I had a little talent for carving then. But word came from Dalanar, and the next thing I knew, Willomar was taking me to the Lanzadonii. I didn’t really know Dalanar. He left when I was young, and I only saw him at Summer Meetings. I didn’t know what to expect, but Marthona did the right thing.”
Jondalar stopped talking, and hunkered down near the fire again. Then he picked up a broken branch, dry and brittle, and added it to the flames. “Before I left, people avoided me, reviled me,” he continued. “Some people took their children away when I was around so they wouldn’t be exposed to my foul influence, as though looking at me might corrupt them. I know I deserved it, what we did was terrible, but I wanted to die.”
Ayla waited, silently watching him. She didn’t understand entirely the customs he spoke of, but she hurt for him with an empathy born of her own pain. She, too, had broken taboos and paid the harsh consequences, but she had learned from them. Perhaps because she was so different to begin with, she had learned to question whether what she had done was really so bad. She had come to understand that it wasn’t wrong for her to hunt, with sling or spear or anything she wanted, just because the Clan believed it was wrong for women to hunt, and she didn’t hate herself because she had stood up to Broud against all tradition.
“Jondalar,” she said, aching for him as he hung his head in defeat and recrimination, “you did a terrible thing”—he nodded agreement—“when you beat that man so hard. But what did you and Zolena do that was so wrong?” Ayla asked.
He looked at her, surprised at her question. He had expected scorn, derision, the kind of contempt he felt for himself. “You don’t understand. Zolena was my donii-woman. We dishonored the Mother. Offended Her. It was shameful.”
“What was shameful? I still don’t know what you did that was so wrong.”
“Ayla, when a woman assumes that aspect of the Mother, to teach a young man, she takes on an important responsibility. She is preparing him for manhood, to be the woman-maker. Doni has made it a man’s responsibility to open a woman, to make her ready to accept the mingled spirits from the Great Earth Mother so the woman can become a mother. It is a sacred duty. It is not a common, everyday relationship that anyone can have at any time, not something to be taken lightly,” Jondalar explained.
“Did you take it lightly?”
“No. Of course not!”
“Then what did you do wrong?”
“I profaned a sacred rite. I fell in love …”
“You fell in love. And Zolena fell in love. Why should that be wrong? Don’t those feelings make you feel warm and good? You didn’t plan to do it. It just happened. Isn’t it natural to fall in love with a woman?”
“But not that woman,” Jondalar protested. “You don’t understand.”
“You are right. I don’t understand. Broud forced me. He was cruel and hateful, and that’s what gave him pleasure. Then you taught me what Pleasures should be, not painful, but warm and good. Loving you makes me feel warm and good, too. I thought love always made you feel that way, but now you tell me it can be wrong to love someone, and it can cause great pain.”
Jondalar picked up another piece of wood and put it on the fire. How could he make her understand? You could love your mother, too, but you don’t want to mate her, and you don’t want your donii-woman to have the children of your hearth. He didn’t know what to say, but the silence was strained.
“Why did you leave Dalanar and go back?” Ayla asked, after a while.
“My mother sent for me … no, it was more than that. I wanted to return. As good as Dalanar was to me, as much as I liked Jerika, and my cousin, Joplaya, it was never quite home. I didn’t know if I could ever return. I was very worried about going back, but I wanted to go. I vowed never to lose my temper, never to lose control again.”
“Were you glad you went home?”
“It wasn’t the same, but after the first few days, it was better than I thought it would be. Ladroman’s family had left the Ninth Cave, and without him there to remind everyone, people forgot about it. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d still been there. It was bad enough at Summer Meetings. Every time I saw him I’d remember the disgrace. There was a lot of talk when Zolena first returned, a little later. I was afraid to see her again, but I wanted to. I couldn’t help it, Ayla, even after all that, I think I still loved her.” His look pleaded for understanding.
He stood again and started pacing. “But she had changed a lot. She’d already moved up in the ranks of the zelandonia. She was very much One Who Serves the Mother. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I wanted to see how much she had changed, to see if she had any feeling left for me. I wanted to be alone with her, and planned how to do it. I waited until the next festival to Honor the Mother. She must have guessed. She tried to avoid me, but then changed her mind. Some people were scandalized the next day, even though it was entirely proper to share Pleasures with her at a festival.” He snorted with derision. “They needn’t have bothered. She said she still cared about me, wanted the best for me, but it wasn’t the same. She really didn’t want me any more.
“The truth of it is,” he said, with bitter irony, “I think she does care about me. We’re good friends now, but Zolena knew what she wanted … and she got it. She is not Zolena now. Before I started my Journey, she became Zelandoni, First among Those Who Serve the Mother. I left with Thonolan soon afterward. I think that’s why I went.”
He walked to the entrance again, and stood there looking out over the top of the repaired windbreak. Ayla got up and joined him. She closed her eyes, feeling the wind on her face, and listened to Whinney’s even breathing, and Racers more nervous huffing. Jondalar took a deep breath, then went back and sat down on a mat by the fire, but he made no move to go to sleep. Ayla followed him, took down the large waterbag and poured some water into a cooking basket, then put stones in the fire to heat. He didn’t seem ready for bed yet. He wasn’t through.
“The best part of going back home was Thonolan,” he said, picking up the thread again. “He’d grown up while I was gone, and after I got back, we became good friends and started doing all kinds of things together.…”
Jondalar stopped, and his face filled with grief. Ayla remembered how hard his brother’s death had been on him. He slumped down beside her, his shoulders sagging, drained and exhausted, and she realized what an ordeal it had been for him to talk about his past. She wasn’t sure what had brought it on, but she knew something had been building up in him.
“Ayla, on our way back, do you think we can find … the place where Thonolan was … killed?” he said, turning to her, his eyes brimming, and his voice breaking.
“I’m not sure, but we can try.” She added more stones to the water and picked out soothing herbs.
Suddenly she remembered, with all the worry and fear she’d felt then, his first night in her cave, when she wasn’t sure he would live. He’d called for his brother then, and though she hadn’t understood his words, she understood he was asking for the man who was dead. When she finally made him understand, he spent his great racking grief in her arms.
“That first night, do you know how long it had been since I cried?” he asked, startling her, almost as though he knew what she had been thinking, but then he’d been talking about Thonolan. “Not since then, not since my mother told me I would have to leave. Ayla, why did he have to die?” he said, with a pleading, strained voice. “Thonolan was younger than I was! He shouldn’t have died so young. I couldn’t bear knowing he was gone. Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there, Ayla. I never told you that before. I think I was ashamed because … because I lost control again.”
“There is no shame in grieving, Jondalar … or in loving.
He looked away from her. “You think not?” His voice held an edge of self-contempt. “Even when you use it for yourself, and hurt someone else?”
Ayla frowned in puzzlement.
He turned and faced the fire again. “The summer after I was back, I was selected at the Summer Meeting for First Rites. I was worried; most men are. You worry about hurting a woman, and I’m not a small man. There are always witnesses, to verify that a girl has been opened, but also to make sure that she’s not really hurt. You worry that maybe you won’t be able to prove your manhood and they’ll have to get another man at the last moment, and you’ll be shamed. Many things can happen. I have to thank Zelandoni.” His laugh was caustic. “She did exactly what a donii-woman is supposed to. She counseled me … and it helped.
“But, I thought of Zolena that night, not the aspiring Zelandoni. Then I saw this scared girl and I realized she was a lot more worried than I was. She really got frightened when she saw me full; many women do, the first time. But I remembered what Zolena had taught me, how to make her ready, how to limit and control myself, how to please her. It turned out to be wonderful, to see her go from a nervous, scared girl to an open, willing woman. She was so grateful, and so loving … I felt that I loved her, that night.”
He closed his eyes in that frown of pain Ayla had seen so much recently. Then he jumped up again and paced. “I never learn! I knew the next day I didn’t really love her, but she loved me! She was not supposed to fall in love with me any more than I was supposed to fall in love with my donii-woman. I was supposed to make her a woman, teach her about Pleasures, not make her love me. I tried not to hurt her feelings, but I could see her disappointment when I finally made her understand.”
He was striding back from the cave opening, and stopped in front of her and almost shouted at her. “Ayla, it is a sacred act, to make a girl a woman, a duty, a responsibility, and I had profaned it again!” He started walking. “That wasn’t the last time. I told myself I would never do that again, but it happened the same way the next time. I told myself I would not accept the role again, I didn’t deserve it. But the next time they selected me, I couldn’t say no. I wanted it. They chose me often, and I began to look forward to it, to the feelings of love and warmth on that night, even though I hated myself the next day for using those young women and the Mother’s sacred rite for myself.”
He stopped, and clung to one of the posts of her herb drying rack, and looked down at her. “But after a couple of years, I realized something was wrong, and I knew the Mother was punishing me. The men my age were finding women, settling down, showing off the children of their hearths. But I couldn’t find a woman to love that way. I knew many women, I enjoyed them for their company and their Pleasures, but I only felt love when I wasn’t supposed to, at First Rites … and only on that night.” He hung his head.
He looked up, startled, when he heard a gentle laugh. “Oh, Jondalar. But you fell in love. You love me, don’t you? Don’t you understand? You weren’t being punished. You were waiting for me. I told you my totem led you to me, maybe the Mother did, too, but you had to come a long way. You had to wait. If you had fallen in love before, you would never have come. You would never have found me.”
Could that be true? he wondered. He wanted to believe it. For the first time in years he felt the load that had weighed down his spirit lighten, and a look of hope crossed his face. “What about Zolena, my donii-woman?”
“I don’t think it was wrong to love her, but even if it went against your customs, you were punished, Jondalar. You were sent away. That’s over now. You don’t have to keep reminding yourself, punishing yourself.”
“But the young women, at First Rites, who …”
Ayla’s expression turned hard. “Jondalar, do you know how terrible it is to be forced the first time? Do you know what it is to hate and have to endure what is not a Pleasure, but painful and ugly? Maybe you weren’t supposed to fall in love with those women, but it must have been a wonderful feeling for them to be treated gently, to feel the Pleasures that you know so well how to give, and to feel loved that first time. If you gave them even a little of what you give me, then you gave them a beautiful memory to carry with them all their lives. Oh, Jondalar, you didn’t hurt them. You did exactly the right thing. Why do you think you were chosen so often?”
The burden of shame and self-contempt he had carried, buried deep inside for so long, began to slip. He began to think that maybe there was a reason for his life, that the painful experiences of his childhood had some purpose. In the catharsis of confession, he saw that perhaps his actions had not been as contemptible as he thought, that perhaps he was worthwhile—and he wanted to feel worthwhile.
But the emotional baggage he had dragged around with him for so long was hard to unload. Yes, he’d finally found a woman to love, and it was true that she was everything he’d ever wanted, but what if he brought her home and she told someone that she was raised by flatheads? Or worse, that she had a mixed son? An abomination? Would he be reviled, again, along with her, for bringing such a woman? He flushed at the thought.
Was it fair to her? What if they turned her away, heaped insults on her? And what if he didn’t stand by her? What if he let them do it? He shuddered. No, he thought. He wouldn’t let them do such a thing to her. He loved her. But what if he did?
Why was Ayla the one he had found to love? Her explanation seemed too simple. His belief that the Great Mother was punishing him for his sacrilege could not be laid to rest so easily. Perhaps Ayla was right, maybe Doni had led him to her, but wasn’t it a punishment that this beautiful woman he loved would be no more acceptable to his people than the first woman he had loved? Wasn’t it ironic that this woman he had finally found was a pariah who had given birth to an abomination?
But the Mamutoi held similar beliefs and they weren’t turning her away. The Lion Camp was adopting her, even knowing she had been raised by flatheads. They had even welcomed a mixed child. Maybe he shouldn’t try to take her home with him. She might be happier staying. Maybe he should stay, too, let Tulie adopt him and become Mamutoi. His forehead furrowed. But he wasn’t Mamutoi. He was Zelandonii. The Mamutoi were good people, and their ways were similar, but they weren’t his people. What could he offer Ayla here? He had no affiliations, no family, no kin among these people. But what could he offer her if he took her home?
He was torn in so many directions, he suddenly felt exhausted. Ayla saw his face go slack, his shoulders slump.
“It’s late, Jondalar. Drink a little of this, and let’s go to bed,” she said, handing him a cup.
He nodded, drank the warm beverage, slipped out of his clothes, and crawled into the furs. Ayla lay beside him, watching him until the furrows on his forehead eased and smoothed out, and his breath was deep and regular, but sleep for her was slower in coming. Jondalar’s distress troubled her. She was glad he had told her more about himself, and his younger life. She had long believed something deep within himself caused him great anguish, and perhaps talking about it had relieved some of his discomfort, but something still bothered him. He had not told her everything, and she felt a deep uneasiness about it.
She lay awake, trying not to disturb him, wishing she could sleep. How many nights had she spent alone in this cave, unable to sleep? Then she remembered the cloak. Slipping quietly out of bed, she rummaged through her pack and pulled out a soft, old piece of leather, and held it to her cheek. It was one of the few things she had taken with her from the rubble of the clan’s cave before she left. She had used it to help carry Durc when he was an infant, and to support him on her hip when he was a toddler. She didn’t know why she had taken it. It had not been a necessity, yet more than once, when she was alone, she had rocked herself to sleep with it. But not since Jondalar came.
She crumpled the soft old hide into a ball, stuffed it to her stomach, and wrapped herself around it. Then, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
“It’s too much, even with the travois and carrying baskets on Whinney. I need two horses to carry all this!” Ayla said, looking over the pile of bundles and neatly tied objects she wanted to take with her. I’ll have to leave more behind, but I’ve been through everything so many times, I don’t know what else to leave.” She glanced around trying to find something that would give her an idea for a solution to her dilemma.
The cave seemed deserted. Everything useful that they weren’t taking with them had been put back in the storage holes and cairns, just in case they might want to come back for it someday, though neither one believed they ever would. All that was left in view was a pile of discards. Even Ayla’s herb drying rack was bare.
“You’ve got two horses. Too bad you can’t use both of them,” Jondalar said, seeing the two horses in their place near the entrance, munching on hay.
Ayla studied the horses, speculatively. Jondalar’s comment had started her thinking. “I still think of him as Whinney’s colt, but Racer is almost as big as she is. Maybe he could carry a small load.”
Jondalar was immediately interested. “I’ve been wondering when he would be big enough to do some of the things Whinney does, and how you would teach him to do them. When did you first ride Whinney? And what made you think about it in the first place?”
Ayla smiled. “I was just running with her one day, wishing I could run as fast, and suddenly the idea came to me. She was a little frightened at first and started running, but she knew me. When she got tired, she stopped, and didn’t seem to mind. It was wonderful! It was running like the wind!”
Jondalar watched her as she recalled her first ride, her eyes glistening and breathing hard with remembered excitement. He had felt the same way the first time Ayla had let him ride on Whinney, and he shared her excitement. He was moved by a sudden desire for her. It never ceased to amaze him how he could be so easily and unexpectedly provoked to want her. But her mind was on Racer.
“I wonder how long it would take to get him used to carrying something? I was riding Whinney before I started having her carry a load, so it didn’t take her long. But if he started first with a small load, it might make it easier to get him to carry a rider later. Let’s see if I can find something to practice with.”
She rummaged through the discard pile pulling out skins, some baskets, extra rocks she had used to sand bowls and knap flint tools with, and the sticks she had marked to keep track of the days she had lived in the valley.
She paused for a moment, holding one stick, and put each finger of one hand over the first marks, the way Creb had shown her so long ago. She swallowed hard, thinking about Creb. Jondalar had used the marks on the sticks to confirm how long she had been there, and to help her put into his counting words the number of years of her life. She was seventeen years, then, in the beginning of summer; in late winter or spring she would add another year. He had said he was twenty years and one, and laughingly called himself an old man. He had begun his Journey three years before, the same time she had left the Clan.
She gathered everything up and headed outside, whistling for Whinney and Racer to follow. In the field, they both spent some time stroking and scratching the young stallion. Then Ayla picked up a leather hide. She let him smell it and chew on it, and rubbed him down with it. Then she draped it across his back, and let it hang. He grabbed an end with his teeth and pulled it off, then brought it to her to play some more. She put it across his back again. The next time, Jondalar put it on his back while Ayla set out a coiled long thong and busied herself with making something. They draped the hide on Racer and let him pull it off a few more times. Whinney nickered, watching with interest, and got some attention, too.
The next time Ayla put the hide across Racer’s back, she dropped a long strip of leather with it, reached under him to grab the loose end, and tied the hide on with it. This time when Racer went to pull it off with his teeth, it didn’t come immediately. At first, he didn’t like it, and tried to buck it off, but then he found a flapping end and started tugging with his teeth until he pulled it out from under the thong. He began working the loose thong around until he found the knot, and worked at it with his teeth until he untied it. He picked the hide up with his teeth and dropped it at Ayla’s feet, then went back for the thong. Both Ayla and Jondalar laughed, as Racer pranced away with his head held high, looking proud of himself.
The young horse allowed Jondalar to tie the hide on him again, and walked around with it on his back before he made a game of tugging and pulling and working it off. By then, he seemed to be losing interest. Ayla tied the hide on him again, and he let it stay while she petted and talked to him. Then she reached for the training device she had constructed, two baskets tied together so that they would hang down on both sides, with stones to add weight, and sticks jutting up like the front ends of travois poles.
She draped it across Racer’s back. He flattened his ears, and turned his head back to look. He was unaccustomed to a weight on his back, but he’d been leaned across and handled so much of his life, he was used to feeling some pressure and weight. It wasn’t a totally unfamiliar experience, but, most important, he trusted the woman, and so did his dam. She left the basket carrier in place while she patted and scratched and talked to him, and then she took it off along with the thong and the hide. He sniffed it again, then ignored it.
“We may have to stay an extra day or so to get him used to it, and I will still go through everything one more time, but I think it will work, “Ayla said, beaming with pleasure as they walked back to the cave. “Maybe not dragging a load on poles, like Whinney does, but I think Racer could carry some things on his back.”
“I just hope the weather holds a few more days,” Jondalar said.
“If we don’t try to ride at all, we can put a bundle of hay where we sit, Jondalar. I tied it up tight,” Ayla said, calling down to the man making one last search for firestones on the rocky beach below. The horses were on the beach, too. Whinney, outfitted with packed travois and carrying baskets plus a hide-covered lumpy load on her rump, was waiting patiently. Racer was more skittish about the baskets hanging down his sides and the small load tied to his back. He was still unaccustomed to carrying any load, but the steppe horse was the original breed, a stocky, sturdy horse, used to living in the wild and exceptionally strong.
“I thought you were bringing grain for them, why do you want hay? There’s more grass out there than all the horses can eat.”
“But when it snows heavily or, worse, when the ice crusts on top, it’s hard for them to get at it, and too much grain can make them bloat. It’s good to have a few days’ supply of hay on hand. Horses can die of starvation in winter.”
“You wouldn’t let those horses starve if you had to break through the ice and cut the grass yourself, Ayla,” Jondalar said with a laugh, “but I don’t care if we ride or walk.” His smile faded as he looked up at the clear blue sky. “It’s going to take longer to get back than it did getting here, as loaded as the horses are, either way.”
Holding three more pieces of the innocuous-looking stones in his hand, Jondalar started up the steep path to the cave. When he reached the entrance, he found Ayla standing there looking in with tears in her eyes. He deposited the pyrites in a pouch near his traveling pack and then went to stand beside her.
“This was my home,” she said, overcome by loss as the finality of the move struck her. “This was my own place. My totem led me here, gave me a sign.” She reached for the small leather bag she wore around her neck. “I was lonely, but I did what I wanted to do here, and what I had to do. Now the Spirit of the Cave Lion wants me to leave.” She looked up at the tall man beside her. “Do you think we’ll ever come back?”
“No,” he said. There was a hollow ring to his voice. He was looking in the small cave, but he was seeing another place and another time. “Even if you go back to the same place, it’s not the same.”
“Then why do you want to go back, now, Jondalar? Why not stay here, become a Mamutoi?” she asked.
“I can’t stay. It’s hard to explain. I know it won’t be the same, but the Zelandonii are my people. I want to show them the firestones. I want to show them how to hunt with the spear-thrower. I want them to see what can be done with flint that has been heated. All these things are important and worthwhile and can bring many benefits. I want to bring them to my people.” He looked down at the ground and lowered his voice. “I want them to look at me and think that I am worthwhile.”
She looked into his expressive, troubled eyes, and wished she could remove the pain she saw there. “Is it so important what they think? Isn’t it more important that you know you are?” she said.
Then she remembered that the Cave Lion was his totem, too, chosen by the Spirit of the powerful animal just as she had been. She knew it was not easy living with a powerful totem, the tests were difficult, but the gifts, and the knowledge that came inside, were always worth it. Creb had told her that the Great Cave Lion never chose someone who wasn’t worthy.
Rather than the smaller, one-shouldered Mamutoi haversack, they settled into heavy traveling packs, similar to the type Jondalar once used, designed to be worn on the back, with straps over the shoulders. They made sure the hoods of their parkas were free to slip on or off. Ayla had added tumplines, which could be worn across the forehead for added support, if they chose, though she usually dispensed with the tumpline in favor of wearing her sling wrapped around her head. Their food, fire-making materials, tent, and sleeping furs were packed inside.
Jondalar also carried two good-sized nodules of flint carefully selected from several he had found on the beach, and a pouch full of firestones. In a separate holder attached to the side, they both carried spears and spear-throwers. Ayla carried several good throwing stones in a pouch, and under her parka, attached to a thong she had tied around her tunic, was her otter skin medicine bag.
The hay, which Ayla had bound into a round bale, was tied on the mare. She gave both horses a critical appraisal, checking their legs, their stance, their carriage to make sure they were not overloaded. With a last look up the steep path, they started out down the long valley, Whinney following Ayla, Jondalar leading Racer by a rope. They crossed over the small river near the stepping-stones. Ayla considered removing some of Whinney’s load to make it easier for her to get up the graveled slope, but the sturdy mare made it with little trouble.
Once up on the western steppes, Ayla went a different way from the one they had arrived by. She took a wrong turn, then backtracked, until she found the one she was looking for. Finally, they arrived at a blind canyon strewn with huge, sharp-angled boulders, which had been sheared from crystalline granite walls by the cutting edge of frost and heat and time. Watching Whinney for signs of nervousness—the canyon had once been home to cave lions—they started in, drawn to the slope of loose gravel at the far end.
When Ayla had found them, Thonolan was already dead and Jondalar gravely injured. Except for a request to the Spirit of her Cave Lion to guide the man to the next world, she’d had no time for burial rites, but she couldn’t leave the body exposed to predation. She had dragged him to the end, and using her heavy spear, fashioned after the kind used by the men of the Clan, she levered aside a rock which held back an accumulation of loose stone. She had grieved as the gravel covered the lifeless, bloody form of a man she never knew, and now, never would; a man like herself, a man of the Others.
Jondalar stood at the foot of the slope wishing there was something he could do to acknowledge this burial place of his brother. Perhaps Doni had already found him, since She called him back to Her so soon, but he knew Zelandoni would try to find this resting place of Thonolan’s spirit and guide him if she could. But how could he tell her where this place was? He couldn’t even have found it himself.
“Jondalar?” Ayla said. He looked at her and noticed she had a small leather pouch in her hand. “You have told me his spirit should return to Doni. I don’t know the ways of the Great Earth Mother, I only know of the spirit world of the Clan totems. I asked my Cave Lion to guide him there. Maybe it is the same place, or maybe your Great Mother knows of that place, but the Cave Lion is a powerful totem and your brother is not without protection.”
“Thank you, Ayla. I know you did the best you could.”
“Maybe you don’t understand, just as I don’t understand Doni, but the Cave Lion is your totem, too, now. He chose you, as he chose me, and marked you, as he marked me.”
“You told me that before. I’m not sure what it means.”
“He had to choose you, when he chose you for me. Only a man with a Cave Lion totem is strong enough for a woman with a Cave Lion totem, but there is something you must know. Creb always told me, it is not easy living with a powerful totem. His Spirit will test you, to know you are worthy. It will be very hard, but you will gain more than you know.” She held up the small pouch. “I made an amulet for you. You don’t have to wear it around your neck, as I do, but you should keep it with you. I put a piece of red ochre in it, so it can hold a piece of your spirit and a piece of your totem’s, but I think your amulet should hold one more thing.”
Jondalar was frowning. He didn’t want to offend her, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted this Clan totem amulet.
“I think you should take a piece of stone from your brother’s grave. A piece of his spirit will stay with it, and you can carry it back with yours to your people.”
The knots of consternation on his forehead deepened, then suddenly cleared. Of course! That might help Zelandoni find this place in a spirit trance. Maybe there was more to Clan totems than he realized. After all, didn’t Doni create the spirits of all the animals?
“Ayla, how do you know exactly what to do? How could you learn so much, where you grew up? Yes, I’ll keep this and put a stone from Thonolan’s grave in it,” he said.
He looked at the loose, sharp-edged gravel sloping against the wall in a tenuous equilibrium, created by the same forces that had split the stone slabs and blocks from the steep canyon sides. Suddenly a stone, giving way to the cosmic force of gravity, rolled down amid a spattering of other rocks and landed at Jondalar’s feet. He picked it up. At first glance, it appeared to be the same as all the other innocuous little pieces of broken granite and sedimentary rock. But when he turned it over, he was surprised to see a shining opalescence where the stone had broken. Fiery red lights gleamed from the heart of the milky white stone, and shimmering streaks of blues and greens danced and sparkled in the sun as he turned it this way and that.
“Ayla, look at this,” he said, showing her the small piece of opal. “You’d never guess it from the back. You’d think it was just an ordinary stone, but look here, where it broke off. The colors seem to come from deep inside, and they’re so bright. It almost seems alive.”
“Maybe it is, or maybe it is a piece of the spirit of your brother,” she replied.