by Jean M. Auel
«It can't be helped, Ona,» Aga said. «We can't go until the men are through.»
«We won't miss too many, Ona,» Ika consoled. «The stories will go on all night.
And tomorrow the men will show their best hunts and we'll be allowed to watch. Won't that be exciting?»
«I'd rather watch the women's stories,» Ona said.
«Broud says our clan is going to do the mammoth hunt. He thinks we're sure to win; Brun is going to let him lead it,» Oga gestured, her eyes glowing with pride.
«That will be exciting, Ona. I remember when Broud became a man and led the hunt dance. I couldn't even talk yet, or understand anyone, but it was still exciting,» Ayla motioned.
After the meal was served, the women waited anxiously, casting longing glances at the congregation of women gathered at the far end of the clearing.
«Ebra, go ahead and watch your stories, we have things to discuss anyway,» Brun gestured.
The women picked up babies and herded young children toward the group seated around an old woman who had just started a new story.
«…and the mother of Great Ice Mountain…»
«Hurry,» Ayla motioned. «She's telling the legend of Durc. I don't want to miss any of it, it's my favorite.»
«Everyone knows that, Ayla,» Ebra said.
The women of Brun's clan found places to sit and were soon caught up in the tale.
«She tells it a little differently,» Ayla motioned after a while.
«Every clan's version is a little different, and every storyteller has his own way, but it's the same story. You're just used to Dorv. He's a man, he understands men's parts better. A woman tells more about the mothers, not only the mother of Great Ice Mountain, but how sad the mothers of Durc and the other young people were when they left the clan,» Uka answered.
Ayla remembered that Uka had lost her son during the earthquake. The woman could understand a mother's sadness at losing her son. The modified version gave the legend a new meaning to Ayla, too. For a moment her brow furrowed with concern. My son's name is Durc; I hope that doesn't mean I'll lose him someday. Ayla hugged her baby. No, it can't be. I almost lost him once, the danger is over now, isn't it?
A stray breeze stirred a few loose tendrils of his hair, cooling for a moment his sweat-beaded brow, as Brun carefully gauged the distance to the stump of a tree near the edge of the cleared space that fronted the cave. The rest of the tree, sheared of branches, formed part of the palisade that surrounded the cave bear. The whiff of air only teased. It brought no respite from the stuffing afternoon sun glaring down on the dusty field. But the ethereal zephyr moved more than the tensely watching throng that lined the periphery.
Brun was as still as they, standing with feet apart, his right arm hanging down at his side grasping the handle of his bola. The three heavy stone balls, wrapped in leather shrunk to fit, and attached to braided thongs of unequal length, were splayed out on the ground. Brun wanted to win this contest, not only for the sake of the competition- though that, too, was important-but because he needed to show the other leaders he hadn't lost his competitive edge.
Bringing Ayla to the Clan Gathering had cost him. He realized now that he, and his clan, had become too accustomed to her. She was too great an anomaly for the others to accept in so short a time. Even The Mog-ur was fighting to maintain his place, and he hadn't been able to convince the rest of the mog-urs that she was a medicine woman of Iza's line. They were willing to forgo the special drink made from the roots rather than allow her to make it. The loss of Iza's status was one more support knocked out from under Brun's crumbling position.
If his clan came in less than first in the competitions, he was certain to lose status, and though they were in the running, the outcome was far from assured. But even winning the competition wouldn't guarantee his clan top rank, it would only give him an even chance. There were too many other variables. The clan that hosted the Gathering always had an edge, and it was Norg's clan that was giving his the stiffest competition. If they ran a close enough second, it might give Norg enough backing to come out on top.
Norg knew it and was his most relentless opponent. Brun was holding his own by sheer force of will.
Brun squinted as he eyed the stump. The movement, barely discernible, was enough to halt the breath of half the watchers. The next instant the still figure became a blur of motion, and the three stone balls, whirling around their center, flew toward the stump. Brun knew the moment the bola left his hand that his throw was off. The stones hit the target, then bounced away, failing to wrap around it. Brun walked over to pick up his bola while Nouz took over his place. If Nouz missed the target entirely, Brun would win. If he hit the stump, they would each have a second try. But if Nouz wrapped his bola around it, the match would be his.
Brun stood off on the sidelines, face impassive, resisting the urge to clutch his amulet, and only sent a mental plea to his totem. Nouz had no such compunctions. He reached for the small leather pouch around his neck, closed his eyes, then sighted the post. With a sudden burst of rapid motion, he let the bola fly. Only long years of firm self-control kept Brun from letting his disappointment show when the bola wrapped around the stump and held. Nouz had won, and Brun felt his position slip even more.
Brun stayed in his place while three hides were brought onto the field. One was lashed to the rotted stump of an old snag, a huge old tree whose jagged, broken top was a little taller than the men. Another was laid over a moss-covered fallen log of respectable proportions near the edge of the woods and held down with stones, and the third was spread out on the ground and again held in place with stones. The three formed a triangle of more or less equal sides. Each clan chose one man to compete in this contest, and they lined up in order of clan status near the hide spread on the ground. Other men, carrying sharpened spears, mostly made of yew, though birch, aspen, and willow were also used, went to the other targets.
Two young men from among the lower-ranked clans paired up first. Each holding a spear, they waited tensely, side by side, eyes glued on Norg. At his signal, they made a dash for the upright snag and slammed their spears into it through the leather, aiming for the place where the animal's heart would be if the hide still covered him, then grabbed a second spear from their clansmen waiting beside the target. They sprinted to the fallen log and jammed the second spear into it. By the time the third spear was snatched, one man was clearly in the lead. He ran back to the hide on the ground, thrust the spear deep, as close to the middle as he could, then raised his arms triumphantly.
After the first heat, five men were left. Three of them lined up for the second race, this time from the highest-ranked clans. The one who came in last was given another chance against the remaining two. Then the two men who came in second were paired up, leaving a field of three for the final race-the two first-place winners and the winner of the preceding race. The finalists were Broud, Voord, and the man from Norg's clan, Gorn.
Of the three, Gorn had run four races to earn his place in the finals, while the other two were fairly fresh after only two. Gorn had won the first paired heat but came in third when the three highest-ranked clans raced. He ran again with the last two men and came in second, then paired off with the man who had come in second in the race where he ran third, this time beating him. By sheer guts and stamina, Gorn had made it to the finals and had won the admiration of everyone there.
When the three men lined up for the last race, Brun stepped out on the field.
«Norg,» he said. «I think it would make the last race more fair if we delayed it to give Gorn a chance to rest. I think the son of the mate of your second-in-command deserves it.»
There were nods of approval, and Brun's standing inched up, though Broud scowled. The suggestion put his own clan in a less competitive position, it took away the edge Broud might have in racing against a man already tired, but it showed Brun's fairness, and Norg could hardly refuse. Brun had quickly weighed the alternatives. If Broud lost, his cla
n stood to lose their position; but if Broud won, Brun's evident fairness would boost his prestige, and it gave the impression of confidence he didn't altogether feel. It would make the win clean-there could be no question that Gorn might have won if he had been fresher-providing Broud won. And it was more fair.
It was late in the afternoon before everyone gathered around the field again.
Tensions held in abeyance were revived, and more. The three young men, all rested now, pranced around stretching muscles and hefting spears to find the right balance. Goov moved to the snag with two men from the other clans, and Crug went to the fallen log with two others. Broud, Gorn, and Voord lined up three abreast, fastened their eyes on Norg, and waited for his signal. The leader of the host clan lifted his arm. He dropped it quickly and the men were off. Voord sprang to the lead with Broud at his heels and Gorn pounding hard behind. Voord was already reaching for his second spear as Broud rammed his into the rotted snag. Gorn put on a fresh burst of speed that urged Broud forward as they raced for the fallen log, but Voord was still ahead. He jabbed his spear into the hide-covered log just as Broud pulled up, but he hit a hidden gnarl and the spear clattered to the ground. By the time he retrieved it and thrust again, both Broud and Gorn had passed him by. He grabbed for his third spear and set out after them, but for Voord, the race was lost.
Broud and Gorn raced for the final target, legs pumping, hearts pounding. Gorn started gaining on Broud, then inched out ahead, but the sight of the broad-shouldered giant of a man making Broud eat his dust enraged him. He thought his lungs would burst as he surged forward, forcing every muscle and sinew. Gorn reached the hide spread on the ground an instant before Broud, but as he raised his arm, Broud darted beneath and planted his spear into the ground through the tough leather as he ran across the hide.
Gorn's spear bit through at the next heartbeat. It was a heartbeat too late.
As Broud slowed to a stop, the hunters of Brun's clan crowded around him. Brun watched them, his eyes glowing with pride. His heart was beating almost as fast as Broud's. He had agonized every step of the way with the son of his mate. It was close, for a few tense moments Brun was sure he was going to lose, but he had given his all and come through. It was a crucial race, but with this win, he had more than a chance. I must be getting old, Brun thought, I lost the bola throw, but not Broud. Broud won. Maybe it's time to turn the clan over to him. I could make him leader, announce it right here. I'll fight for the first rank and let him go home with the honor. After that race, he deserves it.
I'll do it! I'll tell him right now!
Brun waited until the men were through congratulating him, then approached the young man, looking forward to Broud's joy when he found out the great honor he was about to receive. It would be a fitting reward for the fine race he had run. It was the greatest gift he could give to the son of his mate.
«Brun!» Broud saw the leader and spoke first. «Why did you have to delay the race? I almost lost. I could have beat him easily if you hadn't given him time to rest.
Don't you care if our clan is first?» he motioned petulantly. «Or is it that you know you'll be too old to be leader next Gathering? If I'm going to be the leader, the least you could do is let me start as first, like you did.»
Brun stepped back, stunned by Broud's vituperative attack. He struggled to control his conflicting emotions. You don't understand, Brun thought, I wonder if you will ever understand? This clan is first; if I can help it, it will stay first. But what will happen when you become leader, Broud? How long will this clan be first then? The pride left his eyes, and a great sorrow overwhelmed him, but Brun controlled that, too. Perhaps he's just too young, he rationalized, maybe he just needs a little more time, a little more experience. Have I ever really explained? Brun tried to forget that no one had to explain to him.
«Broud, if Gorn had been tired, would your win have been as good? What if the other clans doubted that you could beat him if he hadn't been tired? This way they know for sure that you won, and so do you. You did well, son of my mate,» Brun motioned gently. «You ran a good race.»
In spite of his bitterness, Broud still respected this man more than anyone he ever knew, and he could not help but respond. At that moment Broud felt, as he had on his first manhood hunt, that he would give anything for such praise from Brun.
«I didn't think about that, Brun. You're right, this way everyone knows I won, they know I'm better than Gorn.»
«With this race, and Droog winning the toolmaking competition, if our mammoth hunt wins tonight, we're sure to come out first,» Crug said enthusiastically. «And you will be one of those chosen for the Bear Ceremony, Broud.»
More men crowded around Broud to congratulate him as he walked back to the cave. Brun watched him go and then saw Gorn walking back, too, surrounded by Norg's clan. An older man clapped his shoulder in a gesture of encouragement.
Norg's second has a right to be proud of the son of his mate, Brun thought. Broud may have won the race, but I'm not sure he's the better man. Brun had only controlled his sorrow, not eliminated it, and though he struggled to bury it deeper, the pain would not die. Broud was still the son of his mate, the child of his heart.
«The men of Norg's clan are brave hunters,» Droog admitted. «It was a good plan, digging a hole in the path the rhinoceros takes to his drinking place and covering it with brush to hide it. Maybe we could try it sometime. It took courage to drive him back when he bolted; rhinos can be more fierce than mammoths, and much more unpredictable. Norg's hunters told it well, too.»
«But it still wasn't as good as our mammoth hunt. Everyone agreed,» Crug said. «Gorn deserved to be one of the chosen, though. Almost every contest was between Broud and Gorn. For a while I was afraid we would not win the competitions this year. Norg's clan is a very close second. What do you think of the third choice, Grod?»
«Voord did well, but I would have chosen Nouz,» Grod replied. «I think Brun preferred Nouz, too.»
«It was a hard choice, but I think Voord deserved it,» Droog commented.
«We won't be seeing much of Goov until after the festival,» Crag said. «Now that the competitions are over, the acolytes will be spending all their time with the mog-urs. I hope the women don't think that just because Broud and Goov won't be eating with us tonight, they don't have to make as much. I'm going to eat well; there won't be anything else until the feast tomorrow.»
«I don't think I'd want to eat if I were Broud,» Droog said. «It's a great honor to be chosen for the Bear Ceremony, but if he ever needed courage, Broud will need it in the morning.»
The first morning light found the cave empty. The women were already up working by firelight, and the rest couldn't sleep. The preliminary preparations for the feast had consumed days, but the work was nothing compared with the task ahead. Full daylight was upon them long before the glowing disc burst over the tops of the mountains, flooding the cave site with burning rays from a sun already high.
Excitement was tangible, tension unbearable. With the competitions over, the men had nothing to do until the ceremonies, and they were restless. Their nervous agitation infected the older boys, and they in turn stirred up the rest of the youngsters, driving the busy women to distraction; milling men and chasing children all got in their way.
The turbulence subsided temporarily when the women served cakes of crushed millet mixed with water and baked on hot stones. The breakfast of bland biscuits was eaten with solemnity. They were reserved for this one day alone out of every seven years, and, except for nursing babies, were the only food anyone would eat until the feast. The millet cakes were a token only and did little more than whet the appetite. By midmorning, hunger, stimulated by delicious smells emanating from various fires, intensified the turmoil, raising excited anticipation to a fever pitch as the time for the Bear Ceremony drew near.
Creb had not approached either Ayla or Uba with instructions to prepare themselves for the ritual that would be held later, and they were sure the mog-u
rs had found neither of them acceptable. They were not alone in wishing Iza had been well enough to make the journey. Creb had used every power of persuasion at his command to convince the other magicians to let one of them make the drink, but as much as they wanted the ritual and, for them, the rare experience of the drink made from the roots, Ayla was too strange and Uba too young. The mog-urs refused to accept Ayla as a woman of the Clan, much less a medicine woman of Iza's line. The celebration of Ursus affected more than the clans that were in attendance; the consequences, good or bad, of any rituals performed at any Clan Gathering redounded to the entire Clan. The mog-urs would not chance the possibility of invoking bad luck that would cast misfortune on all Clan people everywhere. The stakes were too high.
Eliminating that traditional ritual of the ceremony contributed to the devaluation of Brun and his clan. For all the efforts of his men in the competitions, Brun's acceptance of Ayla posed more threat to the clan's position than anything ever had before. It was too unconventional. Only Brun's adamant stand in the face of increasing opposition kept the issue undecided, and he wasn't at all sure he would win out in the end.
Not long after the millet cakes were served, the leaders arranged themselves near the mouth of the cave. They waited quietly for the attention of the assembled clans. The silence spread out like the ripples of a stone cast in a pond as the presence of the leaders was made known. Men moved quickly into positions defined by clan and personal rank.
The women dropped their work, signaled suddenly well-behaved children, and silently followed suit. The Bear Ceremony was about to begin.
The first beat of the smooth hard stick on the hollowed-out wooden bowl-shaped drum resounded like a sharp crack of thunder in the expectant hush. The slow, stately rhythm was picked up by the stamping of wooden spears against the ground, adding a muted depth. A contrapuntal rhythm of sticks beating on a long, hollow, wooden tube wove around the strong steady beat in a seemingly random pattern of sound, apparently independent from it. Yet the staccato rhythms, played at varying tempos, had a stressed beat that coincided with every fifth thrum of the basic rhythm as if by accident. They combined to produce an increasing sense of expectation, almost of anxiety, until the beats came together. Each release began another surge of tension in wave after hypnotic wave of sound and sensation.
