by Jean M. Auel
When she awoke, the faint light of predawn barely outlined the familiar objects within the cave, feebly assisted by the dull glow of dying coals in the fireplace. She tried to rise. Every muscle and bone in her body rebelled at the movement. A moan escaped her lips, and a moment later Iza was beside her. The woman’s eyes spoke eloquently; they were filled with pain and concern for the girl. Never had she seen anyone beaten so brutally. Not even her mate at his worst had ever beaten Iza so hard. She was sure Broud would have killed her if he hadn’t been forced to stop. It was a scene Iza never thought she would see and never wanted to see again.
As her memory of the incident returned, Ayla was filled with fear and hatred. She knew she should not have been so insolent, but she had no reason to expect such a violent reaction. Why was it that she drove him to such raging outbursts?
Brun was angry, the quiet cold anger that made the whole clan walk softly and avoid him as much as possible. He had disapproved of Ayla’s impudence, but Broud’s reaction shocked him. He was right to punish the girl, but Broud had overdone the punishment by far. He didn’t even respond to the leader’s command to stop; Brun had to drag him away. Worse, his loss of control was over a female. He had allowed a girl to prod him into the emasculating display of uncontrolled rage.
After Broud’s fit of temper at the practice field, Brun had been sure the young man would never allow himself to lose control again, but now he had just thrown a tantrum that was worse than childish, worse because Broud had the powerful body of a grown man. For the first time, Brun began to seriously doubt the wisdom of Broud becoming the next leader, and it hurt the stoic man more than he cared to admit. Broud was more than the child of his mate, more than the son of his heart. Brun was sure it was his own spirit that had created him and he loved him more than life itself. He felt the young man’s failure with a stab of guilt. The fault must be his. Somewhere he had failed, he had not raised him properly, trained him properly, had shown him too much favor.
Brun waited several days before talking to Broud. He wanted to give himself time to think everything through carefully. Broud spent the time in a state of nervous agitation, hardly leaving his hearth, and it was almost a relief when Brun finally signaled him, though his heart beat with trepidation as he followed behind Brun. There was nothing in the world he feared so much as Brun’s anger, but it was Brun’s very lack of anger that brought his message home.
In simple gestures and quiet tones, Brun told Broud exactly what he had been thinking. He took the blame for Broud’s failures, and the young man felt more shame than he ever had in his life. He was made to understand Brun’s love, and his anguish, in a way he had not known before. Here was not the proud leader Broud had always respected and feared, here was a man who loved him and was deeply disappointed in him. Broud was filled with remorse.
Then Broud saw a hard look of resolution in Brun’s eyes. It nearly broke Brun’s heart, but the interests of the clan must come first.
“One more outburst, Broud. Just one more hint of such a display, and you are no longer the son of my mate. It is your place to follow me as leader, but before I will entrust the clan to a man with no self-control, I will disown you and have you cursed with death.” No emotion showed on the leader’s face as he continued. “Until I see some sign that you are a man, there is no hope that you are capable of leadership. I will be watching you, but I will be watching the other hunters, too. I will have to see more than just no outward displays of temper, I will have to know you are a man, Broud. If I have to choose someone else as leader, your status will be set at the lowest rank, permanently. Have I made myself clear?”
Broud couldn’t believe it. Disowned? Death cursed? Someone else chosen as leader? Always the lowest-ranked male? He can’t mean it. But Brun’s set jaw and hard look of determination left no doubt.
“Yes, Brun,” Broud nodded. His face was ashen.
“We will say nothing of this to the others. Such a change will be difficult for them to accept and I don’t want to cause unnecessary concern. But have no doubt I will do as I say. A leader must always put the clan’s interests before his own; it is the first thing you must learn. That is why self-control is so essential to a leader. The clan’s survival is his responsibility. A leader has less freedom than a woman, Broud. He must do many things he may not want to. If necessary, he must even disown the son of his mate. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Brun,” Broud replied. He wasn’t really sure that he did. How could a leader have less freedom than a woman? A leader could do anything, command everyone, women and men alike.
“Go now, Broud. I want to be alone.”
It was several days before Ayla was able to get up, and much longer before the purplish discolorations that covered her body turned to a sickly yellow and finally faded away. At first, she was so apprehensive that she was afraid to go near Broud, and jumped at the sight of him. But as the last ache left her, she began to notice the change in him. He no longer picked on her, no longer badgered her, positively avoided her. Once she forgot the pain, she began to feel the beating was almost worth it. Ever since then, she realized, Broud had let her entirely alone.
Life was easier for Ayla without his constant harassment. She hadn’t realized the pressure she was under until it stopped. She felt free by comparison, though her life was still as limited as the rest of the women’s. She walked with enthusiasm, sometimes breaking into an excited run or happy skip, held her head high, swung her arms freely, even laughed out loud. Her feeling of freedom translated itself into her movements. Iza knew she was happy, but her actions were uncommon and brought disapproving looks. She was just too exuberant; it wasn’t proper.
Broud’s avoidance of her was obvious to the clan, too, and the subject of speculation and wonder. From casual notice of gestured conversations, Ayla began to piece together a notion that Brun had threatened Broud with dire consequences if he hit her again, and she became convinced when the young man ignored her even when she provoked him. She was just a little careless at first, allowing her natural inclinations a freer rein, but then she began a purposeful campaign of subtle insolence. Not the brazen disrespect that had caused the beating, but small things, petty tricks calculated to annoy him. She hated him, wanted to get back at him, and felt protected by Brun.
It was a small clan, and as much as he tried to avoid her, in the course of the clan’s normal interactions, there were occasions when Broud had to tell her what to do. She made a point of being slower to respond to him. If she thought no one was watching, she’d raise her eyes and stare at him with the peculiar grimace of which only she was capable while she watched him struggle for control. She was careful when others were around, especially Brun. She had no desire to feel the leader’s wrath, but she became scornful of Broud’s anger and pitted her will against his more openly as the summer progressed.
Only when she accidentally happened to catch a glance of venomous hatred did she wonder at the wisdom of her actions. His look of hostility was so malevolently intense, it came almost as a physical blow. Broud blamed her entirely for his untenable position. If she had not been so insolent, he would not have gotten so angry. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have a death curse hanging over his head. Her happy exuberance irritated him no matter how he tried to control it. It was patently obvious her behavior was shockingly indecent. Why couldn’t the other men see it? Why did they let her get away with it? He hated her more deeply than before, but he was careful not to show it when Brun was around.
The battle between them had gone below the surface, but it was played out with fiercer intensity, and the girl was not as subtle as she thought. The whole clan was aware of the tension between them and wondered why Brun allowed it. The men, taking their cue from the leader, refrained from interference and even permitted the girl more freedom than they normally would have, but it made the clan uncomfortable, men and women both.
Brun disapproved of Ayla’s behavior; he hadn’t missed any of what she t
hought were subtle ploys, nor did he like seeing Broud let her get away with it. Insolence and rebellion were unacceptable from anyone, especially females. It shocked him to see the girl pitting her will against a male. No woman of the Clan would consider it. They were content with their place; their position was not a veneer of culture, it was their natural state. They understood with a deep instinct their importance to the existence of the Clan. The men could no more learn their skills than the women could learn to hunt; they hadn’t the memories for it. Why should a woman struggle and fight to change a natural state- would she struggle to stop eating, to stop breathing? If Brun hadn’t been absolutely certain she was female, he would have thought from her actions she was male. Yet she had learned the women’s skills and was even showing an aptitude for Iza’s magic.
As much as it disturbed him, Brun refrained from interfering because he could see Broud struggling for self-control. Ayla’s defiance was helping Broud master his temper, a mastery so essential to a future leader. For all that he had seriously considered finding a new successor, Brun was sympathetic where the son of his mate was concerned. Broud was a fearless hunter, and Brun was proud of his bravery. If he could learn to control his one obvious fault, Brun thought Broud would make a good leader.
Ayla was not fully aware of the tensions surrounding her. She was happier that summer than she could ever remember. She took advantage of her increased freedom to wander by herself more, collecting herbs and practicing with her sling. She didn’t shirk any chores that were required of her-she wasn’t allowed to-but one of her tasks was to bring Iza the plants she needed and it gave her an excuse to be away from the hearth. Iza never did regain her full strength, though her cough subsided with the warmth of summer. Both Creb and Iza worried about Ayla. Iza was sure things could not go on the way they were and decided to go out with the girl on a foraging trip and use the opportunity to talk to her.
“Uba, come here, mother’s ready,” Ayla said, picking up the toddler and securing her firmly to her hip with the cloak. They walked down the slope and crossed the stream to the west and continued through woods along an animal trail that had been enlarged slightly by occasional use as a path. When they came to an open meadow, Iza stopped and looked around, then headed for a stand of tall, showy, yellow flowers that resembled asters.
“This is elecampane, Ayla,” Iza said. “It usually grows in fields and open places. The leaves are large ovals with pointed ends, dark green on top and downy underneath, see?” Iza was down on her knees holding a leaf as she explained. “The rib in the middle is thick and fleshy.” Iza broke it to show her.
“Yes, mother, I see.”
“It’s the root that’s used. The plant grows from the same root every year, but it’s best to collect it the second year, late in summer or fall, then the root is smooth and solid. Cut it into small pieces and take about as much as will fit in your palm, boil it down in the small bone cup to more than half full. It should cool before it’s drunk, about two cups a day. It brings up phlegm and is especially good for the lung disease of spitting blood. It also helps to bring on sweating and to pass water.” Iza had used her digging stick to expose a root and was sitting on the ground, her hands moving rapidly as she explained. “The root can be dried and ground to a powder, too.” She dug up several roots and put them in her basket.
They moved across a small knoll, then Iza stopped again. Uba had fallen asleep, secure in her comfortable closeness. “See that little plant with the funnel-shaped yellowish flowers, purple in the middle?” Iza pointed to another plant.
Ayla touched a foot-high plant. “These?”
“Yes. That’s henbane. Very useful to a medicine woman but should never be eaten; it can be dangerously poisonous if used as food.”
“What part is used? The root?”
“Many parts. Roots, leaves, seeds. The leaves are larger than the flowers, grow one after the other on alternate sides of the stem. Pay close attention, Ayla. The leaves are a dull, pale green with spiky edges, and see the long hairs growing along the middle?” Iza touched the fine hairs while Ayla looked closely. Then the medicine woman picked a leaf and bruised it. “Smell,” she instructed. Ayla sniffed; the leaf had a strong narcotic odor.
“The smell goes away after it’s dried. Later there will be many small brown seeds.” Iza dug down and pulled out a thick, yam-shaped, corrugated root with a brown skin. The white inner color showed where it had broken. “The different parts are used for different things, but all of them are good for pain. It can be made into a tea and drunk- it’s very strong, doesn’t take much-or into a wash and applied on the skin. It stops muscle spasms, calms and relaxes, brings sleep.”
Iza gathered several plants, then walked to a nearby stand of brilliant hollyhocks and picked several of the rose, purple, white, and yellow blossoms from the tall simple stems. “Hollyhocks are good for soothing irritations, sore throats, scrapes, scratches. The flowers make a drink that can ease pain, but it makes a person sleepy. The root is good for wounds. I used hollyhock roots on your leg, Ayla.” The girl reached down and felt the four parallel scars on her thigh and thought suddenly about where she’d be now if it weren’t for Iza.
They walked along together for a while, enjoying the warm sun and the warmth of each other’s company without talking. But Iza’s eye was constantly scanning the area. The chest-high grass of the open field was golden and gone to seed. The woman looked across the field of grain, tops bent with their heavy load of mature seeds, undulating gently in the warm breeze. Then she saw something and walked purposefully through the tall stalks and stopped at a section of the rye grass whose seeds had a violet black discoloration.
“Ayla,” she said, pointing to one of the stalks. “This is not the way rye grass normally grows, it is a sickness of the seeds, but we are lucky to find it. It’s called ergot. Smell it.”
“It smells awful, like old fish!”
“But there’s magic in those sick seeds that’s especially helpful for pregnant women. If a woman is a long time in labor, it can help bring the baby faster. It causes contractions. It can start labor, too. It can make a woman lose her baby early, and that’s important, especially if she’s had problems with earlier deliveries or is still nursing. A woman shouldn’t have babies too close together, it’s hard on her, and if she loses her milk, who will feed the baby she has? Too many babies die at birth or in their first year; a mother has to take care of the one that’s already living and has a chance to grow up.
There are other plants that can help her lose the baby early if she needs to, ergot is only one. It’s good after delivery, too. It helps push out the old blood and shrink her organs back to normal. It tastes bad, not as bad as it smells, but it’s useful if used wisely. Too much can cause severe cramps, vomiting, even death.”
“It’s like henbane, it can be harmful or helpful,” Ayla commented.
“That’s often true. Many times the most poisonous plants make the best and strongest medicines, if you know how to use them.”
On the way back toward the stream, Ayla stopped and pointed to an herb with bluish purple flowers, about a foot high. “There’s some hyssop. The tea is good for coughs when you have a cold, right?”
“Yes, and it adds a nice spicy flavor to any tea. Why don’t you pick some?”
Ayla pulled out several plants by the roots and plucked off the long thin leaves as she walked. “Ayla,” the woman said. “Those roots send up new plants every year. If you pull the roots there will be no plants here next summer. It’s best just to pick off the leaves if you have no use for the roots.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Ayla said contritely. “I won’t do it again.”
“Even if you use the roots, it’s best not to dig them all up from one place. Always leave some to grow more.”
They doubled back toward the stream, and when they came to a marshy spot, Iza pointed out another plant. “This is sweet rush. It looks something like iris, but it’s not the same. The boiled r
oot made into a wash soothes burns, and chewing the roots sometimes helps toothaches, but you must be careful when giving it to a pregnant woman. Some women have lost their babies from drinking the juice, though I’ve never had much luck with it when I gave it to a woman for that purpose. It can help an upset stomach, especially constipation. You can tell the difference by this growth here,” Iza pointed. “It’s called a corm, and the plant smells stronger, too.”
They stopped and rested in the shade of a broad-leafed maple near the stream. Ayla took a leaf, curled it into the shape of a cornucopia, folded up the bottom and tucked it under her thumb, then dipped up a cool drink from the stream. She brought a drink for Iza in the makeshift cup before throwing it away.
“Ayla,” the woman began after finishing the drink. “You should do as Broud tells you, you know. He is a man, it’s his right to command you.”
“I do everything he tells me,” she countered defensively. Iza shook her head. “But you don’t do it the way you should. You defy him, you provoke him. Someday you may regret it, Ayla. Broud will be leader one day. You must do what the men say, all the men. You are a woman, you have no choice.”
“Why should men have the right to command women? What makes them better? They can’t even have babies!” she gestured bitterly, feeling rebellious.
“That’s the way it is. That’s the way it has always been in the Clan. You are Clan now, Ayla. You are my daughter. You must behave as a girl of the Clan should.”
Ayla hung her head, feeling guilty. Iza was right, she did provoke Broud. What would have happened to her if Iza had not found her? If Brun had not let her stay? If Creb had not made her Clan? She looked at the woman, the only mother she could remember. Iza had aged. She was thin and drawn. The flesh of her once-muscular arms hung from her bones and her brown hair was almost gray. Creb had seemed so old to her at first, but he had hardly changed at all. It was Iza who looked old now, older than Creb. Ayla worried about Iza, but whenever she said anything, the woman put her off.
