by Jean M. Auel
People he had met specialized in different ways, and he often wondered what had led them along their particular path. With some, all the men customarily performed one function, and all the women another, until each function became so associated with a certain gender that no woman would do what she considered man’s work, and no man could bring himself to perform a woman’s task. With others, tasks and chores tended to fall more along lines of age—younger people performing the more strenuous tasks, and older ones the sedentary chores. In some groups, women might be in full charge of children, in others much of the responsibility of tending and teaching young children belonged to the elders, both male and female.
With the Sharamudoi, specialization had followed different lines, and two distinct but related groups had developed. The Shamudoi hunted chamois and other animals in the high crags and tors of the mountains and cliffs, while the Ramudoi specialized in hunting—for the process was more like hunting than fishing—the enormous sturgeon, up to thirty feet long, of the river. They also fished for perch, pike, and large carp. The division of labor might have caused them to split into two distinct tribes, except for mutual needs they had of each other which kept them together.
The Shamudoi had developed a process for making beautiful, velvety soft leather from chamois hides. It was so unique that distant tribes in the region would trade for them. It was a closely guarded secret, but Jondalar had learned that oils from certain fish were involved in the process. It gave the Shamudoi a strong reason to maintain a close tie with the Ramudoi. On the other hand, boats were made from oak, with some beech and pine used for fittings, and the long planks of the sides were clenched with yew and willow. The river people had need of the mountain dwellers’ knowledge of the forests to find the proper wood.
Within the Sharamudoi tribe, each Shamudoi family had a counterpart Ramudoi family related to it by complex kinship lines that might or might not have anything to do with blood relationship. Jondalar still hadn’t sorted them all out, but after his brother mated Jetamio, he would suddenly be endowed with a score of “cousins” among both groups, related through Thonolan’s mate, although she had no living blood relatives. Certain mutual obligations would be expected to be met, though for him this would involve little more than using certain titles of respect when addressing acquaintances among his new kin.
As an unmated male, he would still be free to go if he wished, though he would be even more welcome to stay. But the ties that bound the two groups were so strong that if living quarters became congested, and a family or two of the Shamudoi decided to move away and start a new Cave, their counterpart family of Ramudoi had to move with them.
There were special rites to exchange ties if the counterpart family did not want to move and another family did. In principle, however, the Shamudoi could insist and the Ramudoi would be obligated to follow, because in matters concerning the land, the Shamudoi had the right to decide. The Ramudoi were not without some leverage, however. They could refuse to transport their Shamudoi kin, or to help them look for a suitable location, since decisions dealing with the water fell to them. In practice, any decision as major as moving away was usually worked out together.
Additional ties had developed, both practical and ritual, to strengthen the relationship, many of them centering on the boats. Though decisions regarding boats on the water were the prerogative of the Ramudoi, the boats themselves also belonged to the Shamudoi, who consequently benefited from the products of their use, in proportion to benefits given in return. Again, the principle which had evolved to resolve disputes was much more complicated than the practice. Mutual sharing with unspoken understanding of and respect for each other’s rights, territories, and expertise made disputes rare.
The making of boats was a joint effort for the very practical reason that it required both the products of the land and the knowledge of the water, and this gave the Shamudoi a valid claim to the craft used by the Ramudoi. Ritual reinforced the tie, since no woman of either moiety could mate a man who did not have such a claim. Thonolan would have to assist in the building, or rebuilding, of a boat before he could mate the woman he loved.
Jondalar was looking forward to the boat building, too. He was intrigued with the unusual craft; he wondered how they were made and how to propel and navigate them. He would have preferred some other reason than his brother’s decision to stay and mate a Shamudoi woman as a means of finding out. But from the beginning, these people had interested him. The ease with which they traveled on the great river and hunted the huge sturgeon surpassed the abilities of any people he had ever heard of.
They knew the river in all her moods. He’d had difficulty comprehending her sheer volume until he had seen all her waters together, and she wasn’t full yet. But it wasn’t from the boat that her size was so apparent. During the winter when the waterfall trail was icing over and unusable, but before the Ramudoi moved in with their Shamudoi kin above, commerce between the two was accomplished by means of ropes and large woven platforms suspended over the ledge of the Shamudoi terrace and down to the Ramudoi dock.
The falls hadn’t yet frozen when he and Thonolan first arrived, but his brother was in no shape to make the precarious ascent. They were both lifted up in a basket.
When he saw her from that perspective for the first time, Jondalar began to understand the full extent of the Great Mother River. The blood had drained from his face; his heart pounded with the shock of comprehension as he looked down at the water and the rounded mountains across the river. He was awed and overcome with a deep reverence for the Mother whose birth waters had formed the river in her wondrous act of creation.
He had since learned there was a longer, easier, if less spectacular ascent to the high embayment. It was part of a trail that extended from west to east over the mountain passes and dropped down to the broad river plain on the eastern end of the gate. The western part of the trail, in the highlands and foothills leading to the start of the series of gorges, was more rugged, but parts of it dipped to the river’s edge. They were heading to one such place.
The boat was already pulling out of midchannel toward an excitedly waving group of people lining a beach of gray sand when a gasp caused the older brother to look around.
“Jondalar, look!” Thonolan was pointing upstream.
Bearing down on them in ominous splendor, following the deep midchannel, was a large, jagged, glittering iceberg. Reflecting crystal facets of the translucent edges haloed the monolith with insubstantial shimmer, but the blue-green shadowy depths held its unmelted heart. With practiced skill, the men rowing the boat changed pace and direction, then, feathering the stroke, they paused to watch a wall of glistening cold glide by with deadly indifference.
“Never turn your back on the Mother,” Jondalar heard the man in front of him say.
“I’d say the Sister brought that one, Markeno,” the man beside him commented.
“How did … big ice … come here, Carlono?” Jondalar asked him.
“Iceberg,” Carlono said, first supplying him with the word. “It could have come from a glacier on the move in one of those mountains,” he went on, moving his chin in the direction of the white peaks over his shoulder, since he had resumed rowing. “Or it could have come from farther north, probably by way of the Sister. She’s deeper, doesn’t have as many channels—this time of year especially. There’s more to that berg than the part you see. Most of it is underwater.”
“It is hard to believe … iceberg … so big, come so far,” Jondalar said.
“We get ice every spring. Not always that big. It won’t last much longer, though—the ice is rotten. One good bump and she’ll break up, and there is a midchannel rock downstream, just below the surface. I don’t think that iceberg will make it through the gate,” Carlono added.
“One good bump from that and we would be the ones to break up,” Markeno said. “That’s why you never turn your back on the Mother.”
“Markeno is right,” Carlono said.
“Never take her for granted. This river can find some unpleasant ways to remind you to pay attention to her.”
“I know some women like that, don’t you, Jonaalar?”
Jondalar suddenly thought of Marona. The knowing smile on his brother’s face made him realize that was who Thonolan had in mind. He hadn’t thought of the woman who had expected him to mate her at the Summer Meeting Matrimonial for some time. With a pang of longing, he wondered if he would ever see her again. She was a beautiful woman. But then Serenio is too, he thought, maybe you ought to ask her. She’s better than Marona in some ways. Serenio was older than he, but he’d often found himself attracted to older women. Why not mate when Thonolan did and just stay?
How long have we been gone? More than a year—we left Dalanar’s Cave last spring. And Thonolan won’t be going back. Everyone is excited about him and Jetamio—maybe you should wait, Jondalar, he said to himself. You don’t want to take the attention from their day … and Serenio might think it was just an afterthought.… Later …
“What took you so long?” a voice called from the shore. “We’ve been waiting for you and we came the long way, by trail.”
“We had to find these two. I think they were trying to hide,” Markeno replied, laughing.
“It’s too late to hide now, Thonolan. This one has hooked you!” said a man from the shore, wading in behind Jetamio to grab the boat and help beach it. He made motions of throwing out a harpoon and jerking it back to engage the hook.
Jetamio blushed, then smiled. “Well, you must admit, Barono, he’s a good catch.”
“You good fisher,” Jondalar returned. “He always before get away.”
Everyone laughed. Though his command of the language wasn’t perfect, they were pleased he had joined in the banter. And he did understand better than he spoke.
“What would it take to catch a big one like you, Jondalar?” Barono asked.
“The right bait!” Thonolan quipped, with a smile at Jetamio.
The boat was pulled onto the narrow beach of gravelly sand, and, after the occupants climbed out, it was lifted and carried up a slope to a large cleared area in the midst of a dense forest of durmast oak. The place had obviously been used for years. Logs, chunks, and scraps of wood littered the ground—the fireplace in front of a large lean-to on one side had no dearth of fuel—yet some wood had been there so long it was rotting. Activity was focused in several areas, each of them containing a boat in some stage of completion.
The boat they had come in was lowered to the ground, and the new arrivals hurried toward the beckoning warmth of the fire. Several others stopped work to join them. An aromatic herb tea was steaming from a wooden trough that had been hollowed out of a log. It was quickly emptied as cups were dipped out. Round heating stones from the river’s edge were heaped in a pile nearby, and a soggy lump of wet leaves, indistinguishable as to variety, sat in the middle of a muddy runnel behind the log.
The trough was well used and about to be refilled again. Two people rolled over the large log to dump the dregs of the previous batch of tea, while a third put the heating rocks in the fire. Tea was kept in the trough, available whenever anyone wanted a cup, and cooking stones were kept in the fire to warm a cup when it cooled. After more pleasantries and gibes aimed at the about-to-be-mated couple, the assemblage put down their cups of wood or tightly woven fibers and drifted back to their various tasks. Thonolan was led off to begin his initiation in the building of boats with some hard work that took less skill: the felling of a tree.
Jondalar had been having a conversation with Carlono about the Ramudoi leader’s favorite topic, boats, and had encouraged him with questions. “What wood makes good boats?” Jondalar had asked.
Carlono, enjoying himself and the interest of the obviously intelligent young man, launched into an animated explanation.
“Green oak is best. It’s tough, but supple; strong, but not too heavy. It loses flexibility if it dries out, but you can cut it in winter and store logs in a pool or bog for a year, even two. More than that, it becomes waterlogged and hard to work, and the boat has trouble finding the right balance in the water. But more important is selecting the right tree.” Carlono was heading into the woods as he talked.
“A big one?” Jondalar asked.
“Not only size. For the base and the planks, you want tall trees with straight trunks.” Carlono led the tall Zelandonii to a grove of close-packed trees. “In dense woods, trees grow up looking for the sun …”
“Jondalar!” The older brother looked up with surprise at Thonolan’s voice. He was standing with several others around a huge oak, surrounded by other tall straight trees whose branches started far up the stem. “Am I glad to see you! Your little brother could use your help. Do you know I can’t get mated until a new boat is built, and this,” he nodded expressively at the tall tree, “has to be cut down for the ‘strakes,’ whatever they are. Look at the size of that mammoth! I didn’t know trees grew that big—it will take forever to cut it down. Big Brother, I’ll be an old man before I’m a mated one.”
Jondalar smiled and shook his head. “Strakes are the planks that make the sides of the bigger boats. If you’re going to be Sharamudoi, you ought to know about them.”
“I’m going to be Shamudoi I’ll leave the boats to the Ramudoi. Hunting chamois is something I understand. I’ve hunted ibex and mouflon in high meadows before. Are you going to help? We need all the muscle we can get.”
“If I don’t want poor Jetamio to wait until you’re an old man, I guess I’ll have to. And besides, it will be interesting to see how it’s done,” Jondalar said, then turned to Carlono and added in the Sharamudoi language, “Help Jondalar chop tree. Talk more later?”
Carlono smiled in agreement, then stood back to watch the first chips of bark cut away. But he didn’t stay long. It would take most of the day before the forest giant fell, and before it did, everyone would gather around.
Starting high up and working down at a steep angle that was met by lower horizontal cuts, small chips were detached. The stone axes did not bite deep. The blade end needed a certain thickness for strength and couldn’t penetrate very far into the wood. As they worked their way toward the center of the huge tree, it appeared more gnawed than cut, but each chip that fell away dug deeper into the heart of the ancient giant.
The day was drawing to a close when Thonolan was given an axe. With everyone who had been working gathered nearby, he made a few final swings, then jumped back when he heard a crack and saw the massive trunk sway. Toppling slowly at first, the tall oak gained momentum as it fell. Tearing limbs off neighboring giants and taking smaller ones with it, the mammoth old tree, snapping and cracking its resistance, thundered to the ground. It bounced, then shivered and lay still.
Silence pervaded the forest; as though in profound reverence, even the birds were still. The majestic old oak had been struck down, sundered from its living roots, its stump a raw scar in the muted earth shades of the woods. Then, with quiet dignity, Dolando knelt beside the ragged stump and dug a small hole with his bare hand. He dropped an acorn in it.
“May the Blessed Mudo accept our offering and bring to life another tree,” he said, then covered the seed and poured a cup of water over it.
The sun was settling into a hazy horizon and making golden streamers of the clouds when they started up the long trail to the high shelf. Before they reached the ancient embayment, the colors shifted through the spectrum of golds and bronzes, then reds to a deep mauve. When they rounded the jutting wall, Jondalar was stopped by the untouchable beauty of the panorama spread out before him. He took a few steps along the edge, too preoccupied with the view to notice the precipitous drop for once. The Great Mother River, calm and full, mirrored the vibrant sky and darkened shadows of the rounded mountains across, her oily smooth surface alive with the movement of her deep current.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Jondalar turned at the voice and smiled at a woman who had
moved up beside him. “Yes. Beautiful, Serenio.”
“Big feast tonight to celebrate. For Jetamio and Thonolan. They’re waiting—you should come.”
She turned to go, but he took her hand, held her there, and watched the last glimmers of the sunset reflected in her eyes.
There was a yielding gentleness about her, an ageless acceptance that had nothing to do with age—she was only a few years older than he. Neither was it giving in. Rather that she made no demands, had no expectations. The death of her first mate, of a second love before there was time to mate, and the miscarriage of a second child that would have blessed the mating, had tempered her with grief. In learning to live with hers, she had developed an ability to absorb the pain of others. Whatever their sorrow or disappointment, people turned to her and always came away relieved because she imposed no burden of obligation on them for her compassion.
Because of her calming effect on distraught loved ones or fearful patients, she often assisted the Shamud and had learned some medical skills from the association. That was how Jondalar had come to know her first, when she was helping the healer nurse Thonolan back to health. When his brother was up and recovered enough to move to the hearth of Dolando and Roshario, and most especially, Jetamio, Jondalar had moved in with Serenio and her son, Darvo. He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t expected him to.
Her eyes always seemed to reflect, he thought, as he leaned over to kiss her lightly in greeting before they started toward the glowing fire. He never saw into their depths. He pushed away an unbidden thought that he was grateful for it. It was as though she knew him better than he knew himself; knew of his inability to give of himself completely, to fall in love as Thonolan had done. She even seemed to know that his way of making up for the lack of emotional depth was to make love to her with such consummate skill that it left her gasping. She accepted it, as she accepted his occasional black moods, without inflicting guilt on him for it.
