Mammoth Hunters (6 page)

“Spirit of the Great Cave Lion, Creb always said a powerful totem was hard to live with. He was right. Always the testing has been difficult, but always it has been worth it. This woman is grateful for the protection, and for the gifts of her powerful totem. The gifts inside, of things learned, and the gifts of those to care about like Whinney and Racer, and Baby, and most of all, for Jondalar.”

Whinney came to her when she reached the colt and blew a soft greeting. She laid her head on the mare’s neck. The woman felt tired, drained. She wasn’t used to so many people, so much going on, and people who spoke a language were so
noisy.
She had a headache, her temples were pounding, and her neck and shoulders hurt. Whinney was leaning on her and Racer, joining them, added pressure from his side, until she was feeling squeezed between them, but she didn’t mind.

“Enough!” she said, finally, slapping the colt’s flank. “You’re getting too big, Racer, to get me in the middle like that. Look at you! Look how big you are. You’re almost as big as your dam!” She scratched him, then rubbed and patted Whinney, noticing dried sweat. “It’s hard for you, too, isn’t it? I’ll give you a good rubdown and brush you with a teasel later, but people are coming now so you’re probably going to get
more attention. It won’t be so bad once they get used to you.”

Ayla didn’t notice that she had slipped into the private language she had developed during her years alone with only animals for company. It was composed partly of Clan gestures, partly of verbalizations of some of the few words the Clan spoke, imitations of animals, and the nonsense words she and her son had begun to use. To anyone else, it was likely the hand signals would not have been noticed, and she would have seemed to be murmuring a most peculiar set of sounds, grunts and growls and repetitive syllables. It might not have been thought of as a language.

“Maybe Jondalar will brush Racer, too.” Suddenly she stopped as a troubling thought occurred to her. She reached for her amulet again and tried to frame her thoughts. “Great Cave Lion, Jondalar is now your chosen, too, he bears the scars on his leg of your marking, just as I do.” She shifted her thoughts into the ancient silent language spoken only with hands; the proper language for addressing the spirit world.

“Spirit of the Great Cave Lion, that man who has been chosen has not a knowledge of totems. That man knows not of testing, knows not the trials of a powerful totem, or the gifts and the learning. Even this woman who knows has found them difficult. This woman would beg the Spirit of the Cave Lion … would beg for that man …”

Ayla stopped. She wasn’t sure what she was asking for. She didn’t want to ask the spirit not to test Jondalar—she did not want him to forfeit the benefits such trials would most assuredly bring—and not even to go easy on him. Since she had suffered great ordeals and gained unique skills and insights, she had come to believe benefits came in proportion to the severity of the test. She gathered her thoughts and continued.

“This woman would beg the Spirit of the Great Cave Lion to help that man who has been chosen to know the value of his powerful totem, to know that no matter how difficult it may seem, the testing is necessary.” She finally finished and let her hands drop.

“Ayla?”

She turned around and saw Latie. “Yes.”

“You seemed to be … busy. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“I am through.”

“Talut would like you to come and bring the horses. He has already told everyone they should do nothing that you don’t say. Not to frighten them or make them nervous … I think he made some people nervous.”

“I will come,” Ayla said, then she smiled. “You like ride horse back?” she asked.

Latie’s face split into a wide grin. “Could I? Really?” When she smiled like that, she resembled Talut, Ayla thought.

“Maybe people not be nervous when see you on Whinney. Come. Here is rock. Help you get on.”

As Ayla came back around the bend, followed by a full-grown mare with the girl on her back, and a frisky colt behind, all conversation stopped. Those who had seen it before, though still awed themselves, were enjoying the expressions of stunned disbelief on the faces of those who hadn’t.

“See, Tulie. I told you!” Talut said to a dark-haired woman who resembled him in size, if not in coloring. She towered over Barzec, the man from the last hearth, who stood beside her with his arm around her waist. Near them were the two boys of that hearth, thirteen and eight years, and their sister of six, whom Ayla had recently met.

When they reached the earthlodge, Ayla lifted Latie down, then stroked and patted Whinney, whose nostrils were flaring as she picked up the scent of unfamiliar people again. The girl ran to a gangly, red-haired young man of, perhaps, fourteen years, nearly as tall as Talut and, except for age and a body not yet as filled out, almost identical.

“Come and meet Ayla,” Latie said, pulling him toward the woman with the horses. He allowed himself to be pulled. Jondalar had strolled over to keep Racer settled down.

“This is my brother, Danug,” Latie explained. “He’s been gone a long time, but he’s going to stay home now that he knows all about mining flint. Aren’t you, Danug?”

“I don’t know all about it, Latie,” he said, a bit embarrassed.

Ayla smiled. “I greet you,” she said, holding out her hands.

It made him even more embarrassed. He was the son of the Lion Hearth, he should have greeted the visitor first, but he was overwhelmed by the beautiful stranger who had such power over animals. He took her proffered hands and mumbled a greeting. Whinney chose that moment to snort and prance away, and he quickly let her hands go, feeling, for some reason, that the horse disapproved.

“Whinney would learn to know you faster if you patted her and let her get your scent,” Jondalar said, sensing the young man’s discomfort. It was a difficult age; no longer child but not quite man. “Have you been learning the craft of mining flint?” he asked conversationally, trying to put the boy at ease as he showed him how to stroke the horse.

“I am a worker of flint. Wymez has been teaching me since I was young,” the young man said with pride. “He’s the best, but he wanted me to learn some other techniques, and how to judge the raw stone.” With the conversation turned to more familiar topics, Danug’s natural enthusiasm surfaced.

Jondalar’s eyes lit up with sincere interest. “I, too, am a worker of flint, and learned my craft from a man who is the best. When I was about your age, I lived with him near the flint mine he found. I’d like to meet your teacher sometime.”

“Then let me introduce you, since I am the son of his hearth—and the first, though not the only, user of his tools.”

Jondalar turned at the sound of Ranec’s voice, and noticed the whole Camp was circled around. Standing beside the man with brown skin was the man he had greeted so warmly. Though they were the same height, Jondalar could see no further resemblance. The older man’s hair was straight and light brown shot with gray, his eyes were an ordinary blue, and there was no similarity between his and Ranec’s distinctly exotic features. The Mother must have chosen the spirit of another man for the child of his hearth, Jondalar thought, but why did She select one of such unusual coloring?

“Wymez, of the Fox Hearth of the Lion Camp, Flint Master of the Mamutoi,” Ranec said with exaggerated formality, “meet our visitors, Jondalar of the Zelandonii, another of your ilk, it would seem.” Jondalar felt an undercurrent of … he wasn’t sure. Humor? Sarcasm? Something. “And, his beautiful companion, Ayla, a woman of No People, but great charm—and mystery.” His smile drew Ayla’s eyes, with the contrast between white teeth and dark skin, and his dark eyes sparkled with a knowing look.

“Greetings,” Wymez said, as simple and direct as Ranec had been elaborate. “You work the stone?”

“Yes, I’m a flint knapper,” Jondalar replied.

“I have some excellent stone with me. It’s fresh from the source, hasn’t dried out at all.”

“I’ve got a hammerstone, and a good punch in my pack,” Jondalar said, immediately interested. “Do you use a punch?”

Ranec gave Ayla a pained look as their conversation quickly turned to their mutual skill. “I could have told you this would happen,” he said. “Do you know what the worst part of living at the hearth of a master toolmaker is? It’s not always having stone chips in your furs, it’s always having stone talk in your ears. And after Danug showed an interest … stone, stone, stone … that’s all I heard.” Ranec’s warm smile belied his complaint, and everyone had obviously heard it before, since no one paid much attention, except Danug.

“I didn’t know it bothered you so much,” the young man said.

“It didn’t,” Wymez said to the youngster. “Can’t you tell when Ranec is trying to impress a pretty woman?”

“Actually, I’m grateful to you, Danug. Until you came along, I think he was hoping to turn me into a flint worker,” Ranec said to relieve Danug’s concern.

“Not after I realized your only interest in my tools was to carve ivory with them, and that wasn’t long after we got here,” Wymez said, then he smiled and added, “And if you think chips of flint in your bed are bad, you ought to try ivory dust in your food.”

The two dissimilar men were smiling at each other, and Ayla realized with relief that they were joking, teasing each other verbally, in a friendly way. She also noticed that for all their difference in color and Ranec’s exotic features, their smile was similar, and their bodies moved the same way.

Suddenly shouting could be heard coming from inside the longhouse. “Keep out of it, old woman! This is between Fralie and me.” It was a man’s voice, the man of the sixth hearth, next to the last one. Ayla recalled meeting him.

“I don’t know why she chose you, Frebec! I should never have allowed it!” a woman screeched back at the man. Suddenly an older woman burst out through the archway, dragging a crying young woman with her. Two bewildered boys followed, one about seven, the other a toddler of two with a bare bottom and a thumb in his mouth.

“It’s all your fault. She listens to you too much. Why don’t you stop interfering?”

Everyone turned away—they had heard it all before, too many times. But Ayla stared in amazement. No woman of the Clan would have argued with any man like that.

“Frebec and Crozie are at it again, don’t mind them,” said Tronie. She was the woman from the fifth hearth—the Reindeer
Hearth, Ayla recalled. It was the next after the Mammoth Hearth, where she and Jondalar were staying. The woman was holding a baby boy to her breast.

Ayla had met the young mother from the neighboring hearth earlier and was drawn to her. Tornec, her mate, picked up the three-year-old who was clinging to her mother, still not accepting of the new baby who had usurped her place at her mother’s breast. They were a warm and loving young couple, and Ayla was glad they were the ones who lived at the next hearth rather than the ones who squabbled. Manuv, who lived with them, had come to talk to her while they were eating, and told her that he had been the man of the hearth when Tornec was young, and was the son of a cousin of Mamut. He said he often spent time at the fourth hearth, which pleased her She always did have a special fondness for older people.

She wasn’t as comfortable with the neighboring hearth on the other side, the third one. Ranec lived there—he had called it the Fox Hearth. She did not dislike him, but Jondalar acted so strangely around him. It was a smaller hearth, though, with only two men and took less space in the longhouse so she felt closer to Nezzie and Talut, at the second hearth, and to Rydag. She liked the other children of Talut’s Lion Hearth, too, Latie and Rugie, Nezzie’s younger daughter, close in age to Rydag. Now that she’d met Danug, she liked him, too.

Talut approached with the big woman. Barzec and the children were with them and Ayla assumed they were mated.

“Ayla, I would like you to meet my sister, Tulie of the Aurochs Hearth, headwoman of the Lion Camp.”

“Greetings,” the woman said, holding out both hands in the formal way. “In Mut’s name, I welcome you.” As sister to the headman she was his equal, and conscious of her responsibilities.

“I greet you, Tulie,” Ayla replied, trying not to stare.

The first time Jondalar was able to stand, it had been a shock to discover that he was taller than she was, but to see a woman who was taller was even more surprising. Ayla had always towered over everyone in the Clan. But the headwoman was more than tall, she was muscular and powerful-looking. The only one who exceeded her in size was her brother. She carried herself with the presence that only sheer height and mass can convey, and the undeniable self-assurance of a
woman, mother, and leader completely confident and in control of her life.

Tulie wondered about the visitor’s strange accent, but another problem concerned her more, and with the directness typical of her people, she did not hesitate to bring it up.

“I didn’t know the Mammoth Hearth would be occupied when I invited Branag to return with us. He and Deegie will be joined this summer. He will only stay a few days, and I know she had hoped they could spend those days off by themselves a little, away from her brothers and sister. Since you are a guest, she would not ask, but Deegie would like to stay at the Mammoth Hearth with Branag, if you do not object.”

“Is large hearth. Many beds. I do not object,” Ayla said, feeling uncomfortable to be asked. It wasn’t her home.

As they were talking, a young woman came out of the earthlodge, followed by a young man. Ayla looked twice. She was close to Ayla’s age, stocky and a fraction taller! She had deep chestnut hair and a friendly face that many would have said was pretty, and it was evident that the young man with her thought she was quite attractive. But Ayla wasn’t paying much attention to her physical appearance, she was staring with awe at the young woman’s clothing.

She was dressed in leggings, and a tunic of leather of a color that almost matched her hair—a long, profusely decorated, dark ochre red tunic that opened in front, belted to hold it closed. Red was a color sacred to the Clan. Iza’s pouch was the only object Ayla owned that had been dyed red. It held the special roots used to make the drink for the special ceremonies. She still had it, carefully tucked away in her medicine bag in which she carried various dried herbs used in the healing magic. A whole tunic made of red leather? It was hard to believe.