by Jean M. Auel
Carlono turned off the main trail along a path not as well traveled. Jondalar followed behind. “Sometimes we find two growing together,” the Ramudoi leader continued, “bending and giving only for each other, like those.” He pointed to a pair of trees entwined around each other. “We call them a love pair. Sometimes if one is cut down, the other dies, too,” Carlono said. Jondalar’s forehead wrinkled in a frown.
They reached a clearing and Carlono led the tall man up a sunny slope toward a massive giant of a twisted, gnarled old oak. As they approached, Jondalar thought he saw strange fruit on the tree. Drawing near, he was surprised to see that it was decorated with an unusual array of objects. There were delicate tiny baskets with dyed quill designs, small leather bags embroidered with mollusk-shell beads, and cords twisted and knotted into patterns. A long necklace had been draped around the huge bole so long before that it was embedded in the trunk. On close inspection, he saw it was made of shell beads, carefully shaped with holes bored through the centers, alternating with individual vertebrae of fish backbones which had a natural center hole. He noticed tiny carved boats hanging from branches, canine teeth suspended from leather thongs, bird feathers, squirrel tails. He had never seen anything like it.
Carlono chuckled at his wide-eyed reaction. “This is the Blessing Tree. I imagine Jetamio has made her a gift. Women usually do when they want Mudo to bless them with a child. The women think of her as theirs, but more than a few men have made her an offering. They ask for good luck on first hunts, favor on a new boat, happiness with a new mate. You don’t ask often, only for something special.”
“Is so big!”
“Yes. It is the Mother’s own tree, but that isn’t why I brought you here. Notice how curved and bent her branches are? This one would be too big, even if she wasn’t the Blessing Tree, but for supports, you look for trees like this. Then you study the branches to find the ones that will fit the inside of your boat.”
They walked by a different path down to the boat-making clearing and approached Markeno and Thonolan, who were working on a log that was huge in girth as well as length. They were gouging out a trough with adzes. At the present stage, the log resembled the crude trough that was used for making tea rather than one of the gracefully shaped boats, but the rough shape had been hacked out. Later a stem and stern would be carved, but first the inside had to be finished.
“Jondalar has taken quite an interest in boat making,” Carlono said.
“Maybe we need to find him a river woman so he can become a Ramudoi. It’s only fair since his brother will be Shamudoi,” Markeno joked. “I know a couple who have been casting long glances at him. One of them might be persuaded.”
“I don’t think they’d get too far with Serenio around,” Carlono said with a wink at Jondalar. “But then some of the best boat makers are Shamudoi. It’s not the boat on the land, it’s the boat in the water that makes a river man.”
“If you’re so eager to learn boat making, why don’t you pick up an adze and help?” Thonolan said. “I think my big brother would rather talk than work.” His hands were black and one cheek was smudged the same color. “I’ll even lend you mine,” he added, throwing the tool to Jondalar, who caught it by reflex. The adze—a sturdy stone blade mounted at right angles to a handle—left a black mark on his hand.
Thonolan jumped down and went to check a nearby fire. It had burned down to glowing embers out of which tongues of orange flame leaped now and then. He picked up a broken section of plank, its top pocked with charred holes, and swept hot coals out of the fire onto it with a branch. He carried them back to the log and spilled them, amidst a shower of sparks and smoke, into the troughlike hole they were gouging out. Markeno laid more wood on the fire and brought over a container of water. They wanted the coals to burn into the log, not set it on fire.
Thonolan moved the coals around with a stick, then added a strategically placed sprinkle of water. A sputtering hiss of steam and a sharp smell of burning wood evidenced the elemental battle of fire and water. But, eventually, the water had its way. Thonolan scooped out the remnant pieces of wet black charcoal, then climbed into the boat trough and began to scrape away the charred wood, deepening and widening the hole.
“Let me take a turn at that,” Jondalar said after he had watched for a while.
“I was wondering if you were just going to stand around all day,” Thonolan remarked with a grin. The two brothers tended to slip into their native language when they talked to each other. The ease and familiarity of it was comfortable. They were both gaining competence with the new language, but Thonolan spoke it better.
Jondalar stopped to examine the stone head of the adze after the first few strokes, tried again at a different angle, checked the cutting edges again, then found the proper swing. The three young men worked together, speaking little, until they stopped for a rest,
“I not see before, use fire to make trough,” Jondalar said as they walked toward the lean-to. “Always gouge out with adze.”
“You could use just an adze, but fire makes it go faster. Oak is hard wood,” Markeno remarked. “Sometimes we use pine from higher up. It’s softer, easier to dig out. Still, fire helps.”
“Take long time make boat?” Jondalar inquired.
“Depends how hard you work, and how many work on it. This boat won’t take long. It’s Thonolan’s claim, and it must be done before he can mate Jetamio, you know.” Markeno smiled. “I never saw anyone work so hard, and he’s coaxing everyone else, too. Once you start, though, it is a good idea to keep at it until it’s done. Keeps it from drying out. We’re going to split planks this afternoon, for the strakes. Do you want to help?”
“He’d better!” Thonolan said.
The huge oak Jondalar had helped to chop down, minus its branching top, had been carried to the other side of the clearing. It had taken almost every able-bodied person to move it, and nearly as many had gathered to split it. Jondalar hadn’t needed his brother’s “coaxing.” He wouldn’t have missed it.
First, a set of antler wedges was placed in a straight line along the grain for the full length of the log. They were driven in with heavy, handheld stone mauls. The wedges forced a crack in the massive bole, but it opened reluctantly at first. Connecting splinters were severed as the thick butts of the triangular antler pieces were pounded deeper into the heart of the wood, until, with a snap, the log fell apart, split cleanly in half.
Jondalar shook his head in wonder, yet it was only the beginning. The wedges were placed again down the center of each half, and the process repeated until they were split in half. And then each section was halved again. By the end of the day, the huge log had been reduced to a stack of radially split planks, each one tapering toward the center, making one long edge thinner than the other. A few planks were shorter because of a knot, but they would have uses. There were many more planks than required to build up the sides of the boats. They would be used to construct a shelter for the young couple beneath the sandstone overhang on the high terrace, connected to the dwelling of Roshario and Dolando, and large enough to accommodate Markeno, Tholie, and Shamio during the coldest part of the winter. Wood from the same tree used for both house and boat was thought to add the strength of the oak to the relationship.
As the sun descended, Jondalar noticed a few of the younger men ducking into the woods, and Markeno let Thonolan persuade him to continue working on the dugout base of the boat under construction until almost everyone had gone. It was Thonolan who finally conceded that it was too dark to see.
“There’s plenty of light,” a voice said from behind him. “You don’t know what dark is!”
Before Thonolan could turn around to see who spoke, a blindfold was thrown over his head, and his arms were grabbed and held. “What’s going on?” he shouted, struggling to break away.
The only reply was muffled laughter. He was picked up and carried some distance and, when he was put down, he felt his clothes being removed.
�
�Stop it! What are you doing? It’s cold!”
“You won’t be cold for long,” Markeno said when the blindfold was removed. Thonolan saw a half dozen smiling young men, all naked. The area was unfamiliar, particularly in the deep twilight, but he knew they were near water.
Around him the forest was a dense black mass, but it thinned on one side to bare the silhouette of individual trees against a deep lavender sky. Beyond them, the widened way of a path revealed reflected silver flashing sinuously from the smooth oily rolling of the Great Mother River. Nearby, light gleamed through cracks of a small, low, rectangular structure of wood. The young men climbed onto the roof, then down into the hut through a hole in the top using a log, leaning at an angle, with steps cut into it.
A fire had been built inside the hut in a central pit, and stones had been placed on top to heat. The walls stood back, making a bench of the ground, which was covered with planks sanded smooth with sandstone. As soon as everyone was in, the entrance hole at the top was loosely covered; smoke would escape through cracks. A glow of coals showed under the hot rocks, and soon Thonolan conceded that Markeno was right. He was no longer cold. Someone threw water on the stones and a billow of steam rose, making it even more difficult to see in the dim light.
“Did you get it, Markeno?” asked the man sitting beside him.
“Right here, Chalono.” He held up the waterbag of wine.
“Well, let’s have it. You’re a lucky man, Thonolan, Mating a woman who makes bilberry wine this good.” There was a chorus of agreement and laughter. Chalono passed the skin of wine, then, showing a square of leather tied into a pouch, he said with a sly grin, “I found something else.”
“I wondered why you weren’t around today,” one man remarked. “Are you sure they’re the right kind?”
“Don’t worry, Rondo. I know mushrooms. At least I know these mushrooms,” Chalono averred.
“You should. You pick them every chance you get.” There was more laughter at the pointed dig.
“Maybe he wants to be Shamud, Tarluno,” Rondo added derisively.
“Those aren’t the Shamud’s mushrooms, are they?” Markeno asked. “Those red ones with the white spots can be deadly if you don’t prepare them right.”
“No, these are nice safe little mushrooms that just make you feel good. I don’t like playing around with the Shamud’s. I don’t want a woman inside me …” Chalono said, then sniggering, “I’d rather get inside a woman.”
“Who’s got the wine?” Tarluno asked.
“I gave it to Jondalar.”
“Get it away from him. He’s big enough to drink it all!”
“I gave it to Chalono,” Jondalar said.
“I haven’t seen any of those mushrooms—are you going to keep the wine and the mushrooms, too?” Rondo asked.
“Don’t rush me. I’ve been trying to get this bag open. Here, Thonolan, you’re the guest of honor. You get first pick.”
“Markeno, is it true the Mamutoi make a drink out of a plant that’s better than wine or mushrooms?” Tarluno asked.
“I don’t know about better, but I’ve only had it once.”
“How about more steam?” Rondo said, splashing a cup of water on the rocks below, assuming everyone’s assent.
“Some people, to west, put in steam something,” Jondalar commented.
“And one Cave breathe smoke from plant. They let you try, but they not tell what it is,” Thonolan added.
“You two must have tried almost everything … in all your traveling,” Chalono said. “That’s what I’d like to do, try everything there is.”
“I hear flatheads drink something …” Tarluno volunteered.
“They’re animals—they’ll drink anything,” Chalono said.
“Isn’t that what you just said you wanted to do?” Rondo jeered. An outburst of laughter followed.
Chalono noticed Rondo’s comments often provoked laughter—sometimes at his expense. Not to be outdone, he began a story that had been known to cause laughter before. “You know the one about the old man who was so blind, he caught a flathead female and thought it was a woman …”
“Yeah, his pizzle fell off. That’s disgusting, Chalono,” Rondo said. “And what man would mistake a flathead for a woman?”
“Some do not mistake. Do on purpose,” Thonolan said. “Men from Cave, far to west, take Pleasures with flathead females, make trouble for Caves.”
“You’re joking!”
“It no joke. Whole pack of flatheads surround us,” Jondalar confirmed. “They angry. Later we hear some men take flathead women, cause trouble.”
“How did you get away?”
“They let,” Jondalar said. “Leader of pack, he smart. Flatheads more smart people think.”
“I heard of a man who got a flathead female on a dare,” Chalono said.
“Who? You?” Rondo sneered. “You said you wanted to try everything.”
Chalono tried to defend himself, but the laughter drowned him out. When it died down, he tried again. “I didn’t mean that. I was talking about mushrooms and wine and such when I said I wanted to try everything.” He was feeling some effects and becoming a bit thick-tongued. “But a lot of boys talk about flathead females, before they know what women are. I heard of one who took a flathead on a dare, or said he did.”
“Boys will talk about anything,” Markeno said.
“What do you think girls talk about?” Tarluno asked.
“Maybe they talk about flathead males,” Chalono said.
“I don’t want to listen to this anymore,” Rondo said.
“You did your share of talking about it when we were younger, Rondo,” Chalono said, beginning to take offense.
“Well, I’ve grown up. I wish you would. I’m tired of your disgusting remarks.”
Chalono was insulted, and a little drunk. If he was going to be accused of being disgusting, he’d really give them something disgusting. “Is that so, Rondo? Well, I heard of a woman who took her Pleasure with a flathead, and the Mother gave her a baby of mixed spirits…”
“Eeeuch!” Rondo curled his lip and shuddered with repugnance. “Chalono, that’s not anything to joke about. Who asked him to this party? Get him out of here. I feel like I’ve just had filth thrown in my face. I don’t mind a little joking around, but he’s gone too far!”
“Rondo’s right,” Tarluno said. “Why don’t you leave, Chalono?”
“No,” Jondalar said. “Cold out, dark. Not make leave. True, babies of mix spirits not for joke, but why everyone know of them?”
“Half-animal, half-human abominations!” Rondo mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about them. It’s too hot in here. I’m getting out before I get sick!”
“This is supposed to be Thonolan’s party to relax,” Markeno said. “Why don’t we all go out and take a swim, then come back and start all over again. There’s still plenty of Jetamio’s wine left. I didn’t tell you, but I brought two waterbags of it.”
“I don’t think the stones are hot enough, Carlono,” Markeno said. There was an undercurrent of tension in his voice.
“It’s not good to let the water stand in the boat too long. We don’t want the wood to swell, only to soften enough to give. Thonolan, are the struts close by so they’ll be ready when we need them?” Carlono asked with a worried frown.
“They here,” he replied, indicating the poles of alder trunks, cut to length, on the ground near the large dugout filled with water.
“We’d better start, Markeno, and hope the stones are hot.”
Jondalar was still amazed at the transformation, though he had watched it take shape. The oak bole was no longer a log. The inside had been gouged out and smoothed, and the exterior had the sleek lines of a long canoe. The thickness of the shell was no more than the length of a man’s knuckle, except for the solid stem and stern. He had watched Carlono shave off a skin of wood, whose thickness was no more than that of a twig, with a chisel-shaped stone adze to bring the watercraft to
its final dimension. After trying it himself, Jondalar was even more astounded at the skill and dexterity of the man. The boat tapered to a sharp cutwater at the prow, which extended forward. It had a slightly flattened bottom, a less pronounced tapering stern, and it was very long in proportion to its width.
The four of them quickly transferred the cobbles that had been heating in the large fireplace to the water-filled boat, causing the water to steam and boil. The process was no different from heating stones to boil water for tea in the trough near the lean-to, but on a larger scale. And the purpose was different. The heat and steam were not to cook anything, but to reshape the container.
Markeno and Carlono, facing each other across the boat at the midsection, were already testing the flexibility of the hull, pulling carefully to widen the craft, yet not crack the wood. All the hard work of digging out and shaping the boat would have been for nothing if it cracked in expanding. It was a tense moment. As the middle was pulled apart, Thonolan and Jondalar were ready with the longest strut, and when it was wide enough they fitted the brace in crosswise, and held their breaths. It seemed to hold.
Once the center strut was in, proportionally shorter ones were worked into place along the length of the boat. They bailed out the hot water until the four men could manage the weight, took out the rocks and tipped the canoe to pour out the rest of the water, then set the boat between blocks to dry.
The men breathed easier as they stood back to look and admire. The boat was close to fifty feet long, and more than eight feet across at the midsection, but the expansion had altered the lines in another important way. As the middle was widened, the fore and aft sections had lifted, giving the craft a graceful upward curve toward the ends. The results of the expansion were not only a broader beam for greater stability and capacity, but a raised bow and stern that would clear the water to take waves or rough water more easily.
“Now she’s a lazy man’s boat,” Carlono said as they walked to another area of the clearing.
