The Clan of the Cave Bear

by Jean M. Auel

  The meadow grasses supplied food, too. They were top-heavy with seeds and grains. In the immediate vicinity were also nuts, high-bush cranberries, bearberries, hard small apples, starchy potatolike roots, and edible ferns. She was pleased to find milk vetch, the nonpoisonous variety of the plant whose green pods held rows of small round legumes, and she even collected the tiny hard seeds from dried pigweed to grind and add to grains that she cooked into mush. Her environment supplied her needs.

  She decided shortly after she arrived that she needed a new fur wrap. Winter held back the worst of its weather, but it was cold and she knew the snow would not be long in coming. She thought first of a lynx fur; the lynx held a special meaning for her. But its meat would be inedible, at least to her taste, and food was as important to her as fur. She had little trouble taking care of her immediate needs as long as she was able to hunt, but she needed to lay in a store for the time ahead when snow would keep her in the cave. Food was now her reason for hunting.

  She hated the thought of killing one of the gentle shy creatures that had shared her retreat for so long, and she wasn’t sure if a deer could be killed with a sling. She was surprised they still used the high pasture when she saw the small herd, but decided she had to take advantage of the opportunity before they moved to lower elevations. A stone hurled with force at close range felled a doe, and a hard blow with a wooden club finished it off.

  The fur was thick and soft—nature had prepared the animal for the cold winter—and venison stew made a welcome supper. When the smell of fresh meat brought a bad-tempered wolverine, a swift stone killed it and reminded her the first animal she ever killed was a wolverine who had been stealing from the clan. Wolverines were good for something, she had told Oga. Frost from breathing did not build up on the fur of a wolverine; their pelts always made the best hoods. This time I will make a hood from his pelt, she thought, dragging the slain scavenger back to the cave.

  She built fires in a circle around her lines of drying meat to keep other carnivores away and to hasten the process of drying, and she rather liked the taste the smoke gave to the meat. She dug a hole in the rear of her cave, shallow, since the layer of earth was not deep at the back of the small crack in the mountain, and lined it with stones from the stream. After her meat was stored, she covered her cache with heavy rocks.

  Her new fur, cured while the meat was drying, had a smoky odor, too, but it was warm and, with the old one, made her bed comfortable. The deer provided a waterbag, too, from its well-washed, waterproof stomach, and sinew for cord, and fat from the lump above its tail where the animal stored its winter supply. She worried about snow every day while her meat was drying, and slept outside within her circle of fires to keep them fed during the night. She felt relieved and much more secure once it was safely stashed away.

  When a heavily overcast sky hid the moon, she became concerned about the passage of time. She remembered exactly what Brun had said: “If, by the grace of the spirits, you are able to return from the otherworld after the moon has gone through its cycle once and is in the same phase as now, you may live with us again.” She didn’t know if she was in the “otherworld,” but more than anything, she wanted to go back. She wasn’t really sure if she could, didn’t know if they would see her if she went back, but Brun said she could, and she clung to the leader’s words. Only how would she know when she could return if the clouds covered the moon?

  She remembered a time long before when Creb showed her how to make notches on a stick. She guessed that the collection of notched sticks he kept in a part of the hearth—off limits for the other members of his household—were tallies of the times between significant events. Once, out of curiosity, she decided to keep track of something like he did, and since the moon moved through repetitive cycles, she decided it would be fun to see how many notches it would take to complete one cycle. When Creb found out, he scolded her severely. The reprimand reinforced her memory of the occasion as well as warning her not to do it again. She worried a whole day how she would ever know when she could return to the cave before she remembered that time and decided to notch a stick every night. No matter how she tried to control them, tears came to her eyes every time she made a mark.

  Tears came to her eyes often. Small things triggered memories of love and warmth. A startled rabbit bounding across her path reminded her of long shambling walks with Creb. She loved his craggy, one-eyed, scarred old face. The thought of it filled her eyes to overflowing. Seeing a plant she had gathered for Iza, Ayla would burst into sobs remembering the woman explaining how it was used; and a freshet of new tears came when she recalled Creb burning her medicine bag. Nights were the worst.

  She was accustomed to being alone during the day from her years of roaming the countryside gathering plants or hunting, but she had never been away from people at night. Sitting alone in her small cave staring at the fire and its glowing reflection dancing against the wall, she cried for the companionship of those she loved. In some ways, she missed Uba most of all. Often she hugged her fur to her chest and rocked back and forth, humming softly under her breath as she had done so often with Uba. Her environment supplied her physical needs but not her human needs.

  The first snow sifted down silently during the night. Ayla exclaimed with delight when she stepped out of her cave in the morning. A pristine whiteness softened the contours of the familiar landscape creating a magical dreamland of fantastic shapes and mythical plants. Bushes had top hats of soft snow, conifers were dressed in new gowns of white finery, and bare exposed limbs were clothed in shining coats that outlined each twig against the deep blue sky. Ayla looked at her footprints, marring the perfect, smooth layer of glistening white, then ran across the snowy blanket, crossing and recrossing her own path to make a complex design whose original intent was lost in the execution. She started to follow the tracks of a small animal, then spontaneously changed her mind and climbed out on the narrow ledge of the rocky outcrop swept clean of snow by the wind.

  The entire mountain range marching up behind her in a series of majestic peaks was covered with white, shadowed in blue. It sparkled in the sun like a gigantic, luminous jewel. The vista spread out before her showed the lowest reaches of the snowfall. The blue green sea, whipped to a frothy foam of waves, nestled between the cleft of snow-covered hills, but the steppes to the east were still bare. Ayla saw tiny figures scuttling across the white expanse directly below her. It had snowed at the cave of the clan, too. One of the figures seemed to shuffle with a slow limp. Suddenly the magic left the snowy landscape and she climbed back down.

  The second snowfall had no magic at all. The temperature dropped sharply. Whenever she left the cave, fierce winds drove sharp needles into her bare face, leaving it raw. The blizzard lasted four days, piling snow so high against the wall, it nearly blocked the entrance to her cave. She tunneled out, using her hands and a flat hipbone of the deer she had killed, and spent the day gathering wood. Drying the meat had depleted the supply of fallen wood nearby, and floundering through deep snow left her exhausted. She was sure she had food enough to last her, but she hadn’t been as careful about stockpiling wood. She wasn’t sure she had enough, and if it snowed much more, her cave would be buried so deep she wouldn’t be able to get out.

  For the first time since she found herself at her small cave, she feared for her life. The elevation of her meadow was too high. If she got trapped in her cave, she’d never last through the winter. She hadn’t had time to prepare for the entire cold season. Ayla returned to her cave in the afternoon and promised herself to get more wood the next day.

  By morning, another blizzard was howling with full force, and the entrance to her cave was completely blocked. She felt closed in, trapped, and frightened. She wondered how deeply she was buried under the snow. She found a long branch and poked it up through the branches of the hazelnut bush, knocking snow into her cave. She felt a draft and looked up to see snow flying horizontally in the driving wind. She left the branch in the hol
e and went back to her fire.

  It was fortunate she had decided to measure the height of the drift. The hole, kept open by the stick, brought fresh air into the tiny space she occupied. The fire needed oxygen, and so did she. Without the air hole, she could easily doze into a sleep from which she’d never wake up. She had been in more danger than she knew.

  She found she didn’t need much of a fire to keep the cave warm. The snow, trapping minuscule air pockets between its frozen crystals, was a good insulator. Her body heat alone could almost have kept the small space warm. But she needed water. The fire was more important to melt snow than to maintain heat.

  Alone in the cave, lit only by the small fire, the only way she could tell the difference between day and night was by the dim light that filtered in through the air hole during the daytime. She was careful to mark a notch on her stick each evening when the light faded.

  With nothing much to do except think, she stared long at the fire. It was warm and it moved and, enclosed in her tomblike world, it began to take on a life of its own. She watched it devour each stick of wood leaving only a residue of ash. Does fire have a spirit, too? she wondered. Where does the fire spirit go when it dies? Creb says when a person dies, the spirit goes to the next world. Am I in the next world? It doesn’t feel any different; lonelier, that’s all. Maybe my spirit is someplace else? How do I know? I don’t feel like it, though. Well, maybe. I think my spirit is with Creb and Iza and Uba. But I’m cursed, I must be dead.

  Why would my totem give me a sign, knowing I’d be cursed? Why would I think he gave me a sign if he didn’t? I thought he tested me. Maybe this is another test. Or has he deserted me? But why would he choose me and then desert me? Maybe he didn’t desert me. Maybe he went to the spirit world for me. Maybe he’s the one who’s fighting the evil spirits; he could do it better than I could. Maybe he sent me here to wait. Could it be that he’s still protecting me? But if I’m not dead, what am I? I’m alone, that’s what I am. I wish I weren’t so alone.

  The fire is hungry again, she wants something to eat. I think I’ll have something to eat, too. Ayla got another piece of wood from her dwindling supply and fed it to the flames, and then went to check her air hole. It’s getting dark, she thought, I’d better mark my stick. Is that blizzard going to blow all winter? She got her notched stick, made a mark, then fitted her fingers over the marks, first one hand, then the other hand, then the first hand again, continuing until she had covered all the marks. Yesterday was my last day. I can go back now, but how can I leave in this blizzard? She checked her air hole a second time. She could barely make out the snow still flying laterally in the growing dark. She shook her head and went back to the fire.

  When she woke the next day, the first thing she did was check her air hole again, but the gale raged on. Will it never stop? It can’t just go on like that, can it? I want to go back. What if Brun had made my curse permanent? What if I could never go back, even if it did stop blowing? If I’m not dead now, I would die for sure. There just wasn’t enough time. I hardly had time to get enough to last a moon; I would never make it through the whole winter. I wonder why Brun made it a limited death curse? I wasn’t expecting it. Could I really have come back if I went to the spirit world instead of my totem? How do I know my spirit didn’t go? Maybe my totem has been protecting my body here while my spirit is away. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I only know if Brun hadn’t made the curse temporary, I’d never have a chance.

  A chance? Did Brun mean to give me a chance? With a flash of insight, everything came together with a new depth that revealed her growing maturity. I think Brun really meant it when he said he was grateful to me for saving Brac’s life. He had to curse me, it’s the Clan way, even if he didn’t want to, but he wanted to give me a chance. I don’t know if I’m dead. Do people eat or sleep or breathe when they’re dead? She shivered with a chill not caused by the cold. I think most people just don’t want to. And I know why.

  Then what made me decide to live? It would have been so easy to die if I had just stayed where I fell when I ran away from the cave. If Brun hadn’t told me I could come back, would I have gotten up again? If I didn’t know there was some chance, would I have kept trying? Brun said, “by the grace of the spirits …” What spirits? Mine? My totem’s? Does it matter? Something made me want to live. Maybe it was my totem protecting me, and maybe it was just knowing I had a chance. Maybe it was both. Yes, I think it was both.

  It took a while for Ayla to comprehend that she was awake, and then she had to touch her eyes to know they were open. She stifled a scream in the thick suffocating blackness of the cave. I’m dead! Brun cursed me, and now I’m dead! I’ll never get out of here, I’ll never get back to the cave, it’s too late. The evil spirits, they tricked me. They made me think I was alive, safe in my cave, but I’m dead. They were mad when I wouldn’t go with them by the stream, so they punished me. They made me think I was alive when all the while I was really dead. The girl shook with fear, huddled in her fur, afraid to move.

  The girl had not slept well. She kept waking and remembering eerie, frightening dreams of hideous evil spirits and earthquakes, and lynxes that attacked and turned into cave lions, and snow, endless snow. The cave had a dank, peculiar odor, but the smell was the first thing that made her realize her other senses were functioning, if not her sight. The next was when she panicked, bolted upright, and banged her head on the stone wall.

  “Where’s my stick?” she motioned in the darkness. “It’s night and I have to mark my stick.” She scrambled around in the dark looking for her stick as though it was the most important thing in her life. I’m supposed to mark it at night; how can I mark it if I can’t find it? Did I mark it already? How will I know if I can go home if I can’t find my stick? No, that’s not right. She shook her head trying to clear it. I can go home, it’s past the time. But I’m dead. And the snow won’t stop. It’s just going to snow and snow and snow. The stick The other stick. I’ve got to see the snow. How can I see the snow in the dark?

  She crawled around in the cave at random, bumping into things, but when she reached the mouth, she saw a faint, dim glow high above. My stick, it must be up there. She climbed up the bush growing partway into the cave, felt the end of the long branch, and pushed it. Snow fell on her as the stick went through the snow and opened the air hole. She was greeted by a waft of fresh air and a bright blue patch of sky. The storm had finally blown itself out, and when the wind stopped blowing, the last of the snow sifting down had clogged the hole.

  The fresh cold air cleared her head. It’s over! It stopped snowing! It finally stopped snowing! I can go home. But how am I going to get out of here? She poked and prodded with the stick, trying to enlarge the hole. A large section loosened, fell through the opening, and plopped into the cave, covering her with the cold damp snow. I will bury myself if I’m not careful. I’d better think about this. She clambered down and smiled at the light streaming in through the enlarged opening. She was excited, eager to leave, but she forced herself to settle down and think everything through.

  I wish the fire hadn’t gone out, I’d like some tea. But I think there’s some water in the waterbag. Yes, good, she thought and took a drink. I won’t be able to cook anything to eat, but missing one meal won’t hurt me. Anyway, I can eat some dried deer meat. It doesn’t have to be cooked. She ran back to the mouth of the cave to make sure the sky was still blue. Now, what should I take with me? Don’t have to worry about food, there’s plenty stored, especially since the mammoth hunt.

  Suddenly, everything came back to her in a rush—the mammoth hunt, killing the hyena, the death curse. Will they really take me back? Will they really see me again? What if they won’t? Where will I go? But Brun said I could come back, he said so. Ayla hung on to that idea.

  Well, I won’t take my sling, that’s for sure. What about my collecting basket; Creb burned my other one. No, I won’t need it until next summer; I can make a new one then. My clothes, I’ll take al
l my clothes, I’ll wear them all, and maybe a few tools. Ayla got together all the things she wanted to take with her, then began to dress. She put on the rabbit-skin lining and both pairs of foot coverings, wrapped her legs with rabbit-fur leggings, put her tools in her wrap and then tied her fur around her securely. She put on her wolverine hood and her fur-lined hand coverings and started toward the hole. She turned and looked at the cave that had been her home for the past moon, then removed her hand coverings and walked back.

  She didn’t know why it was important to her to leave the small cave in order, but it gave her a sense of completion, like putting it away now that she was through with it. Ayla had an inherent sense of orderliness, reinforced by Iza who had to maintain a systematic arrangement of her store of medicines. Quickly, she arranged everything neatly, put her hand coverings back on, then turned purposefully toward the snow-blocked entrance. She was going to get out; she didn’t know how yet, but she was going to get back to the cave of the clan.

  I’d better go out the top through the hole, I’ll never be able to tunnel through all that snow, she thought. She started climbing up the hazelnut bush and used the stick that had kept the air hole open to widen it. Standing on the highest branches, which sagged only a little in the deep snow under her weight, she poked her head out of the hole and caught her breath. Her mountain meadow was unrecognizable. From her perch, the snow sloped away in a gentle grade. She couldn’t identify a single landmark; everything was covered with snow. How will I ever get through this? It’s so deep. The girl was almost overwhelmed with dismay.

  As she looked around, she began to get her bearings. That birch clump, next to the tall fir, it’s not much bigger than I am. The snow can’t be very deep over there. But how am I going to get there? She scrambled to get out of the hole she was standing in, tamping the snow down to a firmer base as she struggled. She crawled over the edge and sprawled on top of the snow. Her weight distributed over a larger area kept her from sinking through.