The Clan of the Cave Bear

by Jean M. Auel

One clan’s specialty was a combination of onions, mushrooms, and the round green legumes of milk vetch, seasoned with a secret combination of herbs and thickened with dried reindeer moss. Another brought a special variety of pinecones, from a tree that was unique to the area of their cave, that yielded large tasty nuts released by the heat of a fire.

  Norg’s clan toasted chestnuts gathered from the lower slopes and made a nut-flavored porridge sauce from cracked beechnuts, parched grains, and slices of small, hard, tart-sweet apples, cooked long and slowly. The area for some distance in the vicinity of the cave was stripped of blueberries, high-bush cranberries, and from the lower elevations, raspberries and wild mountain blackberries.

  The women of Brun’s clan had spent days cracking and grinding the dried acorns they brought. The pulverized nuts were put in shallow holes in the sand near the river and quantities of water poured over the pulpy mixture to leach out the bitterness. The resultant dough was baked into flat cakes, soaked in maple syrup until they were thoroughly saturated, then dried in the sun. The host clan, who also tapped their maple trees in early spring and boiled the watery sap for long days, were interested as soon as they saw the familiar birchbark containers that were used to store maple sugars and syrup. The sticky, maple-sweet acorn cakes were an unusual treat that the women of Norg’s clan decided to try later themselves.

  Uba, keeping an eye on Durc while helping the women, looked at the seemingly endless quantity and variety of food and wondered how they would ever be able to eat it all.

  Smoke drifting upward disappeared into the still dark night filled with stars so thick a gossamer haze veiled the vault of the heavens. The moon was new and gave no hint of its presence, turning its back to the planet it circled and reflecting its light into the cold depths of space. The glow of cooking fires lighted the area near the cave in contrast to the darkness of the surrounding woods. Food had been moved away from the full force of the heat, but left near enough to keep it hot, and most of the women had retired to the cave. They were changing into new wraps and relaxing for a few moments before the festivities.

  But even the tired women were too excited to stay inside the cave for long. The space in front began to fill with a milling crowd eagerly waiting for the feast and the beginning of the ceremony. A still hush descended as the ten magicians and their ten acolytes filed out of the opening, followed by a scramble to find places. It appeared to be a random assemblage that faced the holy men. Positions of the audience were not defined by location so much as relationship to other people. Orderly ranks were not important, only that each individual was ahead or behind, or on the correct side of certain other individuals. There were always last-minute shufflings as people tried to find the best vantage point within their sphere of relationships.

  With dignified ceremony, a large fire was lit in front of the dark hole in the mountain. Then the stones were removed from the tops of the cooking pits. The mates of the leaders of the first-ranked and host clans had the signal honor of lifting out the huge haunches of tender meat, and Brun’s chest swelled with satisfaction when he saw Ebra step forward.

  The mog-urs’ acceptance of Ayla had finally decided the issue. Brun and his clan were a stronger first than they had ever been. Unlikely as it had appeared at first, the tall blonde female was a woman of the Clan, and a medicine woman of Iza’s prestigious line. Brun’s obdurate insistence that it was so had been proved correct, it was the will of Ursus. Had he wavered, for even a moment, his prestige would not have been as great, or his success as sweet.

  Clouds of succulent steam caused empty stomachs to growl as the bear meat was removed with forked sticks. That was the signal for the other women to begin heaping platters of wood and bone and filling large bowls with the food they had labored so long to prepare. Broud and Voord stepped forward carrying large flat trays and stood in front of The Mog-ur.

  “This Feast of Ursus also honors Gorn, chosen by the Great Cave Bear to accompany him. While he lived with Norg’s clan, Ursus learned that his People had not forgotten his lessons. He grew to know Gorn well and found him a worthy companion. Broud and Voord, for your courage, your strength, your endurance, you were selected to show the Great Spirit the bravery of the men of his Clan. He tested you with his great strength and he is pleased. You did well, and you are privileged to bring him the last meal he will share with his Clan until he returns from the Spirit World. May the Spirit of Ursus always walk with us.”

  The two young men passed by each of the women standing beside dishes heaped with food and selected the choicest morsels of each, with the exception of the meat. The captive cave bear had never been fed meat, though in the wild, he occasionally indulged when it was easily available. The trays were placed in front of the bear hide mounted on the poles.

  Then, the Mog-ur continued: “You drank of his blood, now eat of his body and be one with the Spirit of Ursus.”

  The benediction signaled the beginning of the feast. Broud and Voord received the first portions of the bear meat, then proceeded to fill plates for themselves, followed by the rest of the Clan. Delighted sighs and grunts rose as they settled down to enjoy their repast. The meat from the hand-fed, vegetarian bear was tender and rich with marbled fat. Vegetables, fruits, and grains, prepared with meticulous attention, were savored to the fullest, and the appetizer of hunger made everything taste even better. It was a feast worth waiting for.

  “Ayla, you’re not eating. You know all the meat must be eaten tonight.”

  “I know, Ebra, but I’m just not hungry.”

  “Ayla’s nervous,” Uba gestured between mouthfuls. “I’m glad I wasn’t chosen. This is so good, I wouldn’t want to be too nervous to eat it.”

  “Eat some meat, anyway. You must do that. Do you have some broth for Durc? He should have a little, it will make him one with the Clan.”

  “I gave him some, but he didn’t want much. Oga just fed him. Oga, is Grev still hungry? My breasts are so full, they’re getting sore.”

  “I would have waited, but they were both hungry, Ayla. You can feed them tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have enough milk for them and two more by then. They won’t want anything tonight, they’ll be sleeping. The datura sedative is all ready. Next time they’re hungry, make them drink that first, so they will sleep. Uba will tell you how much, I have to see Creb right after we eat, and I won’t be back until after the ceremony.”

  “Don’t be too long, our dance will start after the men go into the cave. Some of the medicine women are really good at making the rhythms. The women’s dance at Clan Gatherings is always special,” Ebra motioned.

  “I haven’t learned to play very well, yet. Iza taught me a little, and the medicine woman from Norg’s clan was showing me, but I haven’t had much practice,” Ayla said.

  “You haven’t been a medicine woman very long, and Iza has spent more time teaching you the healing magic than the rhythms, although they’re magic, too,” Ovra gestured. “Medicine women have to know so much.”

  “I wish Iza were here,” Ebra motioned. “I’m glad they finally accepted you, Ayla, but I miss Iza. It seems so strange not having her with us.”

  “I wish she were here, too,” Ayla said. “I hated leaving her behind. She’s sicker than she likes to let anyone know. I hope she’s getting lots of sun and rest.”

  “When it’s her time to walk in the next world, she will go. When the spirit calls, no one can stop her,” Ebra said.

  Ayla shivered, though the night was warm, and a sudden sense of foreboding washed over her—a vague, uneasy feeling like a chill wind that hinted of the end of summer warmth. Mog-ur signaled and she quickly got up, but she couldn’t shake the feeling as she walked to the cave.

  Iza’s bowl, white-lined with a patina from generations of use, was on her sleeping fur where Ayla had put it. She took the red-dyed pouch out of her medicine bag and emptied the contents. In the torchlight she began examining the roots. Though Iza had explained many times how to estimate the correct q
uantity, Ayla still wasn’t sure how many to use for the ten mog-urs. The strength of the potion depended not only on number, but on the size of the roots and how long they had aged.

  She had never seen Iza make it. The woman had explained many times the drink was too venerable, too sacred to be made for practice. Daughters usually learned by watching their mothers, from repeated explanations, and even more from the innate knowledge they were born with. But Ayla was not born to the Clan. She picked out several roots, then added one more to be sure the magic would be effective. Then she went to the place just inside the entrance, near a supply of fresh water, where Creb had told her to wait, and watched the beginning of the rites.

  The sound of wooden drums was followed by the thudding of spear butts, and then the staccato of the long, hollowed-out tube. Acolytes moved among the men with bowls of datura tea, and soon they were moving to the heavy beat. The women stayed in the background; their time would come later. Ayla stood by anxiously, her wrap draped loosely around her, waiting. The men’s dance grew more frenzied, and she wondered how much longer she’d have to wait.

  Ayla jumped at a tap on her shoulder—she hadn’t heard the mog-urs coming out of the back of the cave—but she relaxed when she recognized Creb. The magicians moved silently out of the cave and arranged themselves around the bearskin. The Mog-ur stood in front, and from her vantage point she got a fleeting impression that the cave bear, mounted upright with its mouth open, was about to attack the crippled man. But the monstrous animal towering over The Mog-ur was held in suspended motion, a mere illusion of strength and ferocity.

  She saw the great magician signal the acolytes who were playing the wooden instruments. They stopped at the next accented beat and the men looked up, a little stunned to see the mog-urs where just an instant before, or so it seemed, there had been none. But the sudden appearance of the magicians was an illusion, too, and now the young woman knew how it was done.

  The Mog-ur waited, letting the suspense build, until he was sure everyone’s attention was riveted on the giant figure of the cave bear highlighted by the ceremonial fire and flanked by the holy men. His signal was inconspicuous and he made a point of looking in another direction, but it was the one Ayla was waiting for. She slipped out of her wrap, filled the bowl with water, and clutching the roots in her hand, she took a deep breath and walked toward the one-eyed man.

  There was a startled gasp as Ayla walked into the circle of light. Clothed in her wrap, tied with a long cord that hid her shape with loose folds and pockets, and acting like any other female, she had begun to seem one of them. But without the disguising bulges, her true form stood out in sharp contrast to women of the Clan. Rather than the round, almost barrel-shaped body structure characteristic of both men and women, Ayla was lean. From side view she was slender, except for her milk-filled breasts. Her waist dipped in, then filled out to rounded hips, and her legs and arms were long and straight. Not even the red and black circles and lines painted on her naked body could hide it.

  Her face lacked the jutting jaw, and with her small nose and high forehead it seemed more flat than they remembered. Her thick blonde hair, framing her face in loose waves and reaching halfway down her back, picked up highlights from the fire and gleamed golden; an oddly beautiful crown for the ugly, obviously alien, young woman.

  But more astounding was her height. Somehow, when she was moving in a hurried, hunched-over shuffle or sitting at the feet of some man, they hadn’t been so aware of it before. Standing opposite the magicians, it was obvious. When she bowed her head, she looked down at the top of The Mog-ur’s. Ayla was taller, by far, than the tallest man of the Clan.

  The Mog-ur made a series of formalized gestures invoking the protection of the Spirit that still hovered near them. Then Ayla put the hard, dried roots in her mouth. It was difficult for her to chew them. She didn’t have the large teeth and strong, heavy jaws of the people of the Clan. As much as Iza had cautioned her against swallowing any of the juices that formed in her mouth, she couldn’t help it. She didn’t really know how long it was supposed to take to soften the roots, but it seemed to her she had to chew and chew and chew. By the time she spat out the last of the masticated pulp, she was feeling light-headed. She stirred it until the fluid in the ancient, sacred bowl turned a watery white, then she passed it to Goov.

  The acolytes had waited while she worked at the roots, each holding a bowl of long-steeped datura tea. Goov handed the bowl of white liquid Ayla gave him to Mog-ur, then picked up his bowl and gave it to Ayla as the other apprentice magicians gave theirs to the medicine women of their clans. An exchange in kind and value. The Mog-ur took a sip of the liquid.

  “It’s strong,” the holy man motioned in guarded gestures to Goov. “Give less.” Goov nodded and took the bowl, then walked to the mog-ur who was second.

  Ayla and the medicine women carried their bowls to the waiting women and gave controlled amounts of the liquid to them and the older girls. Ayla drained the last dregs from her bowl, but she was already feeling a strange sense of distance, as though a part of her was detached and watching from some other place. Several of the older medicine women took up the wooden drums and began to beat out the rhythms of the women’s dance. Ayla watched the moving sticks with intense fascination, each beat sounding precise and clear. The medicine woman of Norg’s clan offered a bowl drum to her. She listened to the rhythm, tapping lightly, then found herself playing along.

  Time lost all meaning. When she looked up, the men were gone and the women gyrating with a wildly free, erotic frenzy. She felt an urge to join them, put the drum down, and watched it fall over and spin a few times before it stopped. Her attention was diverted by the bowl shape of the instrument. It reminded her of Iza’s bowl, the precious ancient relic entrusted to her care. She remembered staring into the white, watery liquid, her finger stirring it round and round. Where is Iza’s bowl? she thought. What happened to it? She dwelled on the bowl, worried over it, became obsessed with it.

  She had an image of Iza and tears came to her eyes. Iza’s bowl. I’ve lost Iza’s bowl. Her beautiful ancient bowl. Passed on by her mother, and her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother’s mother. In her mind she saw Iza, and another Iza behind her, and another and another; medicine woman after medicine woman lined up behind Iza into an ancient misty past, each holding a venerable, white-stained bowl. The women faded, and her mind’s eye zoomed in on the bowl. Then, suddenly, the bowl cracked, fell away in two parts, broken down the center. No! No! The scream was inside her mind. She was frantic. Iza’s bowl, I’ve got to find Iza’s bowl.

  She stumbled away from the women and staggered toward the cave. It took forever. She scrambled through bone platters and wooden bowls holding the remains of the feast congealed in them, searching for the treasured container. The cave entrance drew her, dimly outlined by torches within, and she stumbled toward it. Suddenly her way was blocked. She was trapped, caught in the meshes of some coarse, hairy creature. She looked up and gasped. A monstrous face with a huge, open mouth stared down at her. Ayla backed away, then ran toward the beckoning cave.

  As she passed through the entrance, her eye was caught by something white near the place where she had waited for Mog-ur’s signal. She fell to her knees and carefully picked up Iza’s bowl, cradling it in her arms. Milky fluid still sloshed around the softened root pulp in the bottom. They didn’t drink it all, she thought. I made too much. I must have made too much. What will I do with it? I can’t throw it away, Iza said it can’t be thrown away. That’s why she couldn’t show me, that’s why I made too much, because she couldn’t show me. I made it wrong. What if someone finds out? They might think I’m not a real medicine woman. Not a woman of the Clan. They might make us leave. What should I do? What should I do?

  I’ll drink it! That’s what I’ll do. If I drink it, no one will know. Ayla held the bowl to her lips and drained it. The mysterious drink was strong to begin with, but the roots soaking in the small amount of liquid made
it far more potent. She started into the second cave with the vague idea of putting the bowl in a safe place, but before she reached her hearth, she began to feel the effects.

  Ayla was so disoriented, she didn’t notice dropping the bowl on the ground just within the hearth’s boundary stones. There was a taste in her mouth of ancient, primordial forest: rich damp loam, musty rotted wood, towering large-leafed trees wet with rain, huge fleshy mushrooms. The walls of the cave expanded, receding farther and farther away. She felt like an insect crawling along the ground. Minute details sprang into sharp focus. Her eyes traced the outline of a footprint, saw every small pebble, each grain of dust. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and watched a spider climbing a shining cable of silk glistening in the light of a torch.

  The flame hypnotized her. She stared at the flickering, dancing light and watched black smoke curling up to the dark ceiling. She moved closer to the torch, then saw another one. She followed its beckoning flame, but when she reached it, another torch beckoned, and then another, drawing her ever deeper into the cave. She didn’t notice when the fires of torches became the fires of small stone lamps spaced far apart, and she wasn’t noticed when she passed by a large interior room full of men lost in a deep trance or the smaller room that held adolescent boys led by older acolytes in a ceremony that gave them a taste of the adult male experience.

  With single-minded purpose, she walked toward each tiny flame, only to be drawn to the next one. The lights led her through narrow passages that opened into larger rooms, then narrowed again. She stumbled on the uneven floor, groping for the damp rocky wall spinning around her. She turned into a passage and at the far end saw a large, rosy glow. It was incredibly long; it went on and on forever. Often, she seemed to see herself from a great distance staggering along the dimly lit tunnel. She felt her mind drawn farther into the distance, into a deep black void, but she quailed before the immensity of nothingness and struggled to retreat from it.