by Jean M. Auel
An undercurrent of anticipation stirred through the woman; she could almost understand what he meant. She felt on the edge of resolving questions whose answers had eluded her.
The tall blond man spied the pile of round cooking stones and scooped them up in both hands. “Let me show you,” he said. He lined them up in a row, and, pointing to each in turn, began to count, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …”
Ayla watched with rising excitement.
When he finished, he looked around for something else to count, and he picked up a few of Ayla’s marked sticks. “One,” he said, putting down the first, “two,” laying the next down beside it, “three, four, five …”
Ayla had a vivid recollection of Creb telling her, “Birth year, walking year, weaning year …” as he pointed to her outstretched fingers. She held up her hand, and, looking at Jondalar, she pointed to each finger. “One, two, three, four, five,” she said.
“That’s it! I knew you were close when I saw your sticks.”
Her smile was gloriously triumphant. She picked up one of the sticks and began counting the marks. Jondalar continued with the counting words beyond the ones she knew, but even he had to stop a few marks beyond the second extra mark. His brow knotted in concentration. “Is this how long you’ve been here?” he asked, indicating the few sticks she had brought out.
“No,” she said, and got the rest. Untying the bundles, she spread out all the sticks.
Jondalar looked closer, and paled. His stomach turned. Years! The marks represented years! He lined them up so he could see all the marks, then studied them for a while. Though Zelandoni had explained some ways to tally larger numbers, he had to think.
Then he smiled. Rather than try to count the days, he would count the extra marks, the ones that represented a complete cycle of the moon’s phases as well as the beginning of her moon times. Pointing to each mark, he made a mark in the dirt floor as he said the counting word aloud. After thirteen marks, he started another row, but skipped the first, as Zelandoni had explained, and made only twelve marks. Moon cycles did not match the seasons or the years exactly. He came to the end of her marks at the end of the third row, then looked at her with awe.
“Three years! You’ve been here three years! That’s how long I’ve been on my Journey. Have you been alone all that time?”
“I’ve had Whinney, and up until …”
“But you haven’t seen any people?”
“No, not since I left the Clan.”
She thought of the years the way she had tallied them. The beginning, when she left the Clan, found the valley, and adopted the little filly, she called Whinney’s year. The next spring—the beginning of the cycle of regrowth—she found the lion cub, and thought of that as Baby’s year. From Whinney’s year to Baby’s year was Jondalar’s one. Next was the stallion’s year, two. And three was the year of Jondalar and the colt. She remembered the years better her way, but she liked the counting words. The man had made her marks tell him how long she had been in the valley, and she wanted to learn to do it.
“Do you know how old you are, Ayla? How many years you have lived?” Jondalar suddenly asked.
“Let me think about it,” she said. She held up one hand with her fingers outstretched. “Creb said Iza thought I was about this many … five years … when they found me.” Jondalar made five marks on the ground. “Durc was born the spring of the year we went to the Clan Gathering. I took him with me. Creb said there are this many years between Clan Gatherings.” She held up two fingers in addition to the full hand.
“That’s seven,” Jondalar said.
“There was a Clan Gathering the summer before they found me.”
“That’s one less—let me think,” he said, making more marks in the dirt. Then he shook his head. “Are you sure? That means your son was born when you were eleven!”
“I’m sure, Jondalar.”
“I’ve heard of a few women giving birth that young, but not many. Thirteen or fourteen is more usual, and some think that’s too young. You were hardly more than a child yourself.”
“No, I was not a child. I had not been a child for several years by then. I was too big to be a child, taller than everyone, including the men. And I was already older than most Clan girls are when they become women.” Her mouth drew up in a skewed smile. “I don’t think I could have waited any longer. Some thought I would never become a woman because I have such a strong male totem. Iza was so glad when … when the moon times started. So was I, until …” Her smile faded. “That was Broud’s year. The next one was Durc’s year.”
“The year before your son was born—ten! Ten years when he forced you? How could he do it?”
“I was a woman, taller than most women. Taller than he.”
“But not bigger than he! I’ve seen some of those flatheads! They may not be tall, but they’re powerful. I wouldn’t want to fight one hand to hand.”
“They are men, Jondalar,” she corrected gently. “They are not flatheads—they are men of the Clan.”
It stopped him. For all her soft-spoken tones, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.
“After what happened, you still insist he isn’t an animal?”
“You might say Broud was an animal for forcing me, but then what do you call the men who force women of the Clan?”
He hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.
“Not all the men were like Broud, Jondalar. Most of them were not. Creb was not—he was gentle and kind, even though he was a powerful Mog-ur. Brun was not, even though he was leader. He was strong-willed, but he was fair. He accepted me into his clan. Some things he had to do—it was the Clan way—but he honored me with his gratitude. Men of the Clan do not often show gratitude to women in front of everyone. He let me hunt; he accepted Durc. When I left, he promised to protect him.”
“When did you leave?”
She stopped to think. Birth year, walking year, weaning year. “Durc was three years when I left,” she said.
Jondalar added three more lines. “You were fourteen? Only fourteen? And you’ve lived here alone since then? For three years?” He counted up all the lines. “You are seventeen years, Ayla. You have lived a lifetime in your seventeen years,” he said.
Ayla sat silently for a time, pensively—then she spoke. “Durc is six years now. The men will be taking him with them to the practice field by now. Grod will make him a spear, his size, and Brun will teach him to use it. And if he’s still alive, old Zoug will show him how to use a sling. Durc will practice hunting small animals with his friend, Grev—Durc is younger but he’s taller than Grev. He always was tall for his age—he gets that from me. He can run fast; no one can run faster. And he’s good with the sling. And Uba loves him. She loves him as much as I do.”
Ayla didn’t notice the tears falling until she took a breath that was a sob, and she didn’t know how she found herself in Jondalar’s arms with her head on his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Ayla,” the man said, patting her gently. Mother at eleven, torn away from her son at fourteen. Not able to watch him grow, not even sure if he’s alive. She’s sure someone loves him and is taking care of him, and teaching him to hunt … like any child.
Ayla felt wrung out when she finally lifted her head from the man’s shoulder, but she felt lighter, too, as though her grief rested less heavily on her. It was the first time since she had left the clan that she had shared her loss with another human soul. She smiled at him with gratitude.
He smiled back with tenderness and compassion, and something more that welled up from the unconscious source of his inner self and showed in the blue depths of his eyes. It found a responsive chord within the woman. They spent a long moment locked in the intimate embrace of outspoken eyes, declaring in silence that which they would not say aloud.
The intensity was too much for Ayla; she was still not entirely comfortable with a direct stare. She wrenched her eyes away and began gathering up her marked sticks. It took
a moment for Jondalar to gather himself together and help her tie the sticks into bundles. Working beside her made him more aware of her warm fullness and pleasant female scent than when he was comforting her in his arms. And Ayla felt an aftersense of the places their bodies had met, where his gentle hands had touched her, and the taste of the salt of his skin mingled with her tears.
They both realized they had touched each other and neither had been offended, but they carefully avoided looking too directly at each other or brushing too close, fearful that it might disturb their unplanned moment of tenderness.
Ayla picked up her bundles, then turned to the man. “How many years are you, Jondalar?”
“I was eighteen years when I started my Journey. Thonolan was fifteen … and eighteen when he died. So young.” His face showed his pain; then he continued: “I am twenty and one years now … and I’ve yet to mate. I’m old for an unmated man. Most men have found a woman and made a hearth at a much younger age. Even Thonolan. He was sixteen at his Matrimonial.”
“I found only two men, where is his mate?”
“She died. While giving birth. Her son died, too.” Compassion filled Ayla’s eyes. “That’s why we were traveling again. He couldn’t stay there. This was his Journey more than mine from the beginning. He was always the one after adventure, always reckless. He’d dare anything, but everyone was his friend. I just traveled with him. Thonolan was my brother, and the best friend I had. After Jetamio died, I tried to convince him to go back home with me, but he wouldn’t. He was so full of grief that he wanted to follow her to the next world.”
Ayla recalled the depth of Jondalar’s desolation when he had first comprehended that his brother was dead, and she saw the ache that still lingered. “Perhaps he’s happier, if it’s what he wanted. It’s difficult to go on living when you lose someone you love so much,” she said gently.
Jondalar thought of his brother’s inconsolable sorrow and understood it more now. Maybe Ayla was right. She ought to know; she had suffered enough grief and hardship. But she chose to live. Thonolan had courage, rash and impetuous; Ayla’s is the courage to endure.
Ayla didn’t sleep well, and the turnings and shufflings she heard from the other side of the fireplace made her wonder if Jondalar was lying awake, too. She wanted to get up and go to him, but the mood of caring tenderness that had grown out of shared griefs seemed so fragile that she was afraid to spoil it by wanting more than he was willing to give.
In the dim red light of the banked fire, she could see the shape of his body wrapped in sleeping furs with a tanned arm flung out and a muscular calf with a heel in the dirt. She saw him more distinctly when she closed her eyes than when she opened them to the breathing mound across the hearth. His straight yellow hair tied back with a piece of thong, his beard, darker and curly; his startling eyes that said more than his words, and his large, sensitive, long-fingered hands went deeper than vision. They filled her with inner sight. He always knew what to do with his hands, whether holding a piece of flint, or finding just the right place to scratch the colt. Racer. It was a good name. The man had named him.
How could a man so tall, so strong, be so gentle? She had felt his hard muscles, felt them move when he comforted her. He was … unashamed to show care, to show sorrow. Men of the Clan were more distant, more reserved. Even Creb, as much as she knew he loved her, had not shown his feelings so openly, not even within the boundary stones of his hearth.
What would she do when he was gone? She didn’t want to think about it. But she had to face it—he was going to leave. He said he wanted to give her something before he left—he said he was leaving.
Ayla tossed and turned through the night, catching glimpses of his bare torso, deeply tanned; the back of his head and broad shoulders; and once, his right thigh with a jagged scar but nothing worse. Why had he been sent? She was learning the new words—was it to teach her to talk? He was going to show her a new way to hunt, a better way. Who would imagine that a man would be willing to teach her a new hunting skill? Jondalar was different from men of the Clan in that way, too. Maybe I can do something special for him, to remember me.
Ayla dozed off thinking how much she wanted him to hold her again, how much she wanted to feel his warmth, his skin next to hers. She awoke just before dawn with a dream of him walking across the winter steppes, and she knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to make something for him that would always be close to his skin, something that would keep him warm.
She got up quietly and found the clothes she had cut off him that first night, and she brought them closer to the fireplace. They were still stiff with dried blood, but if she soaked it out, she could see how they were made. The shirt, with the fascinating design, could be salvaged, she thought, if she replaced the arm sections. The trousers would have to be remade from new material, but she could save some of the parka. The foot coverings were undamaged; they only needed new thongs.
She leaned close to the red coals, examining the seams. Small holes had been poked through the skins along the edges, then pulled together with sinew and thin leather strips. She had looked at them before, the night she had cut them off. She wasn’t sure if she could reproduce them, but she could try.
Jondalar stirred, and she held her breath. She didn’t want him to see her with his clothes; she didn’t want him to know until they were ready. He settled down again, making the heavy breathing sounds of deep sleep. She bundled up the clothes once more and put them under her sleeping fur. Later, she could go through her pile of finished skins and furs and select the ones to use.
As faint light began to filter in through the cave openings, a slight change in his movements and breathing signaled to Ayla that he would wake soon. She added wood to the fire along with heating stones, then set out the pot-basket. The waterbag was nearly empty, and tea was better made with fresh water. Whinney and her colt were standing on their side of the cave, and Ayla stopped on her way out when the mare blew softly.
“I have a wonderful idea,” she said to the horse in silent sign language, smiling. “I’m going to make Jondalar some clothes, his kind of clothes. Do you think he’ll like that?” Then her smile left her. She put an arm around Whinney’s neck, the other around Racer, and leaned her forehead on the mare. Then he’ll leave me, she thought. She could not force him to stay. She could only help him leave.
She walked down the path by the first light of dawn, trying to forget her bleak future without Jondalar, and trying to draw some comfort from the thought that the clothes she would make would be close to him. She slipped out of her wrap for a brisk morning swim, then found a twig of the right size and filled the waterbag.
I’ll try something different this morning, she thought: sweet grass and chamomile. She peeled the twig, put it beside the cup, and started the tea steeping. The raspberries are ripe. I think I’ll pick some.
She set the hot tea out for Jondalar, selected a picking basket, and went back out. Whinney and Racer followed her out and grazed in the field near the patch of raspberries. She also dug up wild carrots, small and pale yellow, and white, starchy groundnuts that were good raw, though she liked them better cooked.
When she returned, Jondalar was outside on the sunny ledge. She waved when she washed the roots, then brought them up and added them to a broth she had started using dry meat. She tasted it, sprinkled in some dried herbs, and divided the raspberries into two portions, then poured herself a cup of cool tea.
“Chamomile,” Jondalar said, “and I don’t know what else.”
“I don’t know what you call it, something like grass that is sweet. I’ll show you the plant sometime.” She noticed his toolmaking implements were out, along with several of the blades he had made the previous time.
“I thought I’d start early,” he said, seeing her interest. “There are certain tools I need to make first.”
“It is time to go hunting. Dried meat is so lean. The animals will have some fat built up this late in the season. I’m hungry f
or a fresh roast with rich drippings.”
He smiled. “You make it sound delicious just talking about it. I meant it, Ayla. You are a remarkably good cook.”
She flushed and put her head down. It was nice to know he thought so, but strange that he should take notice of something that ought to be expected.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“Iza used to say compliments make the spirits jealous. Doing a task well should be enough.”
“I think Marthona would have liked your Iza. She’s impatient with compliments, too. She used to say, ‘The best compliment is a job well done.’ All mothers must be alike.”
“Marthona is your mother?”
“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”
“I thought she was, but I wasn’t sure. Do you have siblings? Other than the one you lost?”
“I have an older brother, Joharran. He’s the leader of the Ninth Cave now. He was born to Joconan’s hearth. After he died, my mother mated Dalanar. I was born to his hearth. Then Marthona and Dalanar severed the knot, and she mated Willomar. Thonolan was born to his hearth, and so was my young sister, Folara.”
“You lived with Dalanar, didn’t you?”
“Yes, for three years. He taught me my craft—I learned from the best. I was twelve years when I went to live with him, and already a man for over a year. My manhood came to me young, and I was big for my age, too.” A strange, unreadable expression crossed his face. “It was best that I left.”
He smiled then. “That was when I got to know my cousin, Joplaya. She is Jerika’s daughter, born to Dalanar’s hearth after they were mated. She’s two years younger. Dalanar taught both of us to work the flint at the same time. It was always a competition—that’s why I would never tell her how good she is. She knows it, though. She has a fine eye and a steady hand—she’ll match Dalanar someday.”
Ayla was silent for a while. “I don’t quite understand something, Jondalar. Folara has the same mother as you, so she is your sister, right?”
