The Shelters of Stone

by Jean M. Auel

  When Ayla asked, several people volunteered their sleeping rolls, which were piled on top of each other to create a slightly raised bed. The injured man had awakened when they moved him onto the stretcher, but was unconscious by the time he arrived at the shelter. He moaned in pain when they moved him to the bed and awoke again, grimacing and struggling to breathe. Ayla folded another bedroll and propped him up on it to try to make him more comfortable. He tried to smile his thanks, but coughed up blood instead. She wiped his chin with a piece of soft rabbit skin, an item she usually kept with her medicinals.

  Ayla went through the limited supplies in her medicine bag and tried to think if there was anything she might have forgotten that would help allay his pain. Gentian roots might help, or a wash of arnica. Both could relieve the internal pain of bruises and other aches, but she had neither with her. The fine hairs on the fruit of hops could be used as a sedative to help him relax, just by breathing the air near them, but they were not readily available. Maybe something in smoke would help, since swallowing liquid was not going to be possible. No, it would probably make him cough, which would be worse. She knew it was hopeless, it was just a matter of time, but she had to do something, at least for his pain.

  Wait, she thought. Didn’t I see that plant from the valerian family on the way here? The one with the aromatic roots? One of the Mamuti at that Summer Meeting called it spikenard. I don’t know the name in Zelandonii. She looked up at the people around her and saw the young woman that Manvelar seemed to have a lot of respect for, the lookout from the Third Cave, Thefona.

  Thefona had stayed to help clean out the small shelter she found and was still there, watching Ayla. The foreign woman intrigued her. There was something about her that made people pay attention to her, and she seemed to have gained the respect of the Ninth Cave in the short time she had been there. Thefona wondered how much the woman really knew about healing. She didn’t have any kind of tattoo marks like the zelandonia did, but the people she came from might have different ways. Some people tried to fool others about what they knew, but the stranger didn’t seem to be trying to impress anyone by bragging or talking big. Instead, she did things that were genuinely impressive, like the way she used that spear-throwing thing. Thefona had been thinking about Ayla, but was surprised when the woman called her name.

  “Thefona, may I ask you something?” Ayla said.

  “Yes,” Thefona said, and thought, She does have a strange way of talking. Not her words, but the way they sound. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t talk much.

  “Do you know much about plants?”

  “Everyone knows something about plants,” Thefona said.

  “I’m thinking about one whose leaves resemble foxglove, but it has yellow flowers, like dandelions. The name I know it by is ‘spikenard,’ but that’s a Mamutoi word.”

  “I’m sorry. I know some food plants. I don’t know much about medicine plants. You would need a Zelandoni for that,” Thefona said.

  Ayla paused, then said, “Would you watch Shevonar, Thefona? I thought I noticed some spikenard on my way here. I’m going back the way we came and look for it. If he wakes up again, or if there is any change at all, would you send someone to find me?” Ayla said. Then she decided to add an explanation, though explaining her actions as a medicine woman was not something she usually did. “If it is what I think it is, it could be helpful. I’ve used the mashed roots as a poultice to help mend bone fractures, but it is easily absorbed and has soothing powers. If I mix it with a little datura and maybe some pulverized yarrow leaves, I think it might help ease his pain. I want to see if I can find it.”

  “Yes, of course I’ll watch him,” Thefona said, pleased, for some unknown reason, that the foreign woman had asked for her help.

  Joharran and Manvelar were talking to Ranokol in quiet tones, but even though they were right next to her, Ayla hardly heard them. She was concentrating on the wounded man and watching the water heating—far too slowly. Wolf was lying on the ground nearby, with his head between his paws, watching her every move. When the water began to steam, she added the spikenard roots so they would soften enough to be pounded into a mash for a poultice. She had been glad to find comfrey as well. A wet dressing of the fresh crushed roots and leaves was also good for bruises and fractures, and while she didn’t think it would mend Shevonar’s injuries, she was willing to try anything that might ease his pain.

  When it was ready, she plastered the warm mashed root directly on the almost black bruise that was spreading down his chest to his stomach. She noticed his abdomen was getting hard. His eyes opened while she was covering it with a piece of leather to keep it warm.

  “Shevonar?” she said. His eyes seemed aware, but puzzled. Perhaps he didn’t recognize her, she thought. “My name is Ayla. Your mate,” she hesitated, then remembered her name, “Relona is on her way here.” He took a breath and winced with pain. It seemed to surprise him. “You were hurt, Shevonar, by a bison. Zelandoni is on her way, too. I am trying to help until she gets here. I put a poultice on your chest to draw out some of the pain.”

  He nodded, but even that was an effort.

  “Do you want to see your brother? He’s been waiting to see you.”

  He nodded again, and Ayla got up and went to the men waiting nearby. “He’s awake. He’d like to see you,” she said to Ranokol.

  The young man quickly got up and went to his brother’s bed. Ayla followed, along with Joharran and Manvelar.

  “How are you feeling?” Ranokol said.

  Shevonar tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain as an unexpected cough brought up a drool of red out of the corner of his mouth. A look of panic filled his brother’s eyes, then he noticed the plaster on his brother’s chest.

  “What is this?” Ranokol said, his voice taut, almost a squeal.

  “It is a poultice for his pain.” Ayla’s voice was normally rather low-pitched, and she said the words slowly and calmly. She understood the panic and fear of the man’s brother.

  “Who told you to do anything to him? It’s probably making him worse. Get this off him!” he screamed.

  “No, Ranokol,” Shevonar said. The voice of the injured man could hardly be heard. “Not her fault. Helps.” He tried to sit up, then collapsed, unconscious.

  “Shevonar. Wake up, Shevonar! He’s dead! Oh Great Mother, he’s dead!” Ranokol cried, slumping down on the bed beside his brother.

  Ayla checked Shevonar’s pulse, while Joharran pulled Ranokol away. “No. He’s not dead, yet,” she said. “But he doesn’t have long. I hope his mate arrives soon.”

  “He’s not dead, Ranokol, but he could have been,” Joharran said angrily. “This woman may not be zelandoni, but she knows how to help. You’re the one who is making him worse. Who knows if he’ll wake up again to say his last words to Relona.”

  “No one can make him worse, Joharran. There is no hope for him. He may go anytime. Don’t blame a man grieving for his brother,” Ayla said, then moved to get up. “Let me make some tea, to settle everyone.”

  “You don’t have to, Ayla. I will. Just tell me what to make.”

  Ayla looked up and saw Thefona, and smiled. “If you just get some water boiling, I’ll get something for all of us,” she said. Then she turned back to check on Shevonar. He struggled with every difficult breath he took. She wanted to make him more comfortable, but when she tried to move him, he moaned in pain. She shook her head, surprised that he was still alive, then reached for her medicine bag to see what she had to make tea. Perhaps chamomile, she thought, with dried linden flowers or licorice root to sweeten it.

  The long afternoon wore on. People came and went, but Ayla didn’t notice them. Shevonar regained consciousness and asked for his mate, then slipped back into a resdess sleep several times. His stomach was distended and hard, and the skin was almost black. She felt sure he was trying to hold on just to see her again.

  Somewhat later, Ayla picked up her waterbag to get a drink, found it emp
ty, then put it down and forgot about her thirst. Portula had come into the small shelter to see how things were. She still felt self-conscious about her part in Marona’s trick and tried to stay out of the way, but she saw Ayla pick up the waterbag, shake it, and find it empty. Portula hurried to the pool, filled her own waterbag, and returned with the cold water.

  “Would you like a drink, Ayla?” she asked, holding out her dripping waterbag.

  Ayla looked up and was surprised to see the woman. “Thank you,” she said, holding out her drinking cup. “I was a little thirsty.”

  Portula stood there for a moment after Ayla was through, looking uncomfortable. “I want to apologize to you,” she finally said. “I’m sorry I let Marona talk me into playing that joke on you. It was not a very nice thing to do. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There really isn’t anything to say, is there, Portula?” Ayla said. “And I did get a warm and comfortable hunting outfit. Though I doubt that was what Marona intended, I will get use out of it, so let’s just forget about it.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Portula said.

  “There isn’t anything anyone can do to help. I’m surprised he is still with us. He asks for his mate when he wakes up. Joharran told him she is on her way,” Ayla said. “I think he’s holding on for her. I only wish I could do more to make it easier for him, but most medicines that alleviate pain have to be swallowed. I’ve given him a skin soaked with water to wet his mouth, but with his injury, I’m afraid if he drank anything, it would make it worse.”

  Joharran was out in front of the shelter looking south, the way Jondalar had gone, anxiously waiting for his return with Relona. The sun was falling low in the west, and darkness would follow soon. He had sent people to collect more wood so they could build up a large bonfire to help guide them; they were even taking some from the surround. The last time Shevonar woke, he eyes were glazed, and the leader knew death was near.

  The young man had put up such a brave struggle to cling to a last shred of life, Joharran hoped his mate would arrive before he lost the battle. Finally, in the distance he saw movement, something approaching. He hurried in that direction and was relieved to see a horse. When they were closer, he went to Relona and guided the distraught woman to the stone shelter where her mate lay dying.

  As she drew near, Ayla gently touched the man’s arm. “Shevonar. Shevonar! Relona’s here.” She moved his arm again. He opened his eyes and looked at Ayla. “She’s here. Relona’s here,” she said. Shevonar closed his eyes again and shook his head slightly, trying to make himself wake up.

  “Shevonar, it’s me. I came as fast as I could. Talk to me. Please talk to me.” Relona’s voice cracked in a sob.

  The injured man opened his eyes and fought to focus on the face bending near. “Relona,” he said. It was barely audible. The start of a smile was erased by an expression of pain. He looked again at the woman and watched her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, then closed his eyes and struggled to breathe.

  Relona’s eyes were pleading when she looked up at Ayla, who looked down, then back up, and shook her head. She glanced around in panic, desperately searching out someone else who would give her another answer, but no one would return her gaze. She looked back at the man and watched him strain to take a breath, then saw blood spill from the corner of his mouth.

  “Shevonar!” she cried, and reached for his hand.

  “Relona … wanted to see you once more,” he gasped, opening his eyes. “Say good-bye before I walk … the spirit world. If Doni allows … will see you there.” He closed his eyes and they heard a feeble rattle as he tried to draw in a breath. Then, a low moan grew louder, and though Ayla was sure he was trying to control it, the sound increased. He stopped and tried to take a breath. Then, Ayla thought she heard a muted popping sound from inside him as he suddenly cried out in an agonizing scream. When the sound died away, he breathed no more.

  “No, no. Shevonar, Shevonaaar,” Relona cried. She laid her head on his chest and heaved great sobs of sorrow and grief. Ranokol was standing beside her with tears miming down his cheeks, looking bewildered, dazed, at a loss. He didn’t know what to do.

  Suddenly they were startled by a loud and eerie howl at close quarters that sent shivers down their backs. As one, they looked at Wolf. He was standing on all four legs with his head thrown back, wailing a spine-tingling wolf song.

  “What’s he doing?” Ranokol said, quite upset.

  “He is grieving for your brother,” said the familiar voice of Zelandoni. “As we all do.”

  Everyone was relieved to see her. She had arrived with Relona and several others, but had stayed back to observe when Shevonar’s mate rushed ahead. Relona’s sobs turned to a wailing moan, a keening of her grief. Zelandoni joined her in her anguished lament, then several others. Wolf howled along with them. Finally, Ranokol broke down sobbing and threw himself across the man on the bed. An instant later he and Relona were clinging together, rocking and keening their sorrow.

  Ayla thought it was good for both of them. To alleviate his pain and anger, she knew Ranokol needed to let his grief out, and Relona had helped him. When Wolf howled again, she joined him in a howl so realistic, many thought at first it was another wolf. Then, to the surprise of those who had kept a vigil for the man in the shelter, from a distance they heard another wolf howl, joining in the keening wolf song of grief.

  After a while, the donier helped Relona up and led her to a fur that had been spread on the ground near the fire. Joharran helped the man’s brother to a place on the other side of the hearth. The woman sat there rocking back and forth, making a low moaning sound, indifferent to everything around her. Ranokol just sat staring blankly at the fire.

  The Zelandoni of the Third spoke quietly with the huge Zelandoni from the Ninth Cave, and shortly after returned with a steaming cup of liquid in each hand. The donier of the Ninth Gave took one cup from the Third and urged it on Relona, who drank it without objection, as though she didn’t know, or care, what she did. The Third’s other cup was brought to Ranokol, who ignored the proffered drink, but after some urging he finally drank it. Soon both of them were lying on the furs near the fire, asleep.

  “I’m glad to see her quieted,” Joharran said, “and him, too.”

  “They needed to grieve,” Ayla said.

  “Yes, they did, but now they need to rest,” Zelandoni said. “And so do you, Ayla.”

  “Have something to eat first,” Proleva said. Joharran’s mate had come with Relona and Zelandoni and a few others from the Ninth Cave. “We roasted some bison meat, and the Third Cave brought other food.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Ayla said.

  “But you must be tired,” Joharran said. “You hardly left his side for a moment.”

  “I wish I could have done more for him. I couldn’t think of anything to help him,” Ayla said, shaking her head and looking dejected.

  “But you did,” said the older man who was the Zelandoni of the Third. “You eased his pain. No one could have done more, and he wouldn’t have field on to life without your help. I would not have used a poultice in that way. To ease aches or bruises, yes, but for internal injuries? I don’t think I would have thought of it. Yet it did seem to help.”

  “Yes. It was a perceptive way to treat him,” the Ninth’s Zelandoni said. “Have you done that before?”

  “No. And I wasn’t sure it would help, but I had to try something,” Ayla said.

  “You did well,” the donier said. “But now you should have something to eat, and rest.”

  “No, nothing to eat, but I think I will lie down for a while,” Ayla said. “Where’s Jondalar?”

  “He went out with Rushemar and Solaban, and a couple of others to get more wood. Some went along just to hold torches, but Jondalar wanted to be sure there would be enough to last the night, and this valley doesn’t have many trees. They should be back soon. Jondalar put your sleeping furs over there,” Joharran said, s
howing her the place.

  Ayla lay down, thinking to rest a while until Jondalar came back. She was asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes. When the fuel collectors returned with the wood, nearly everyone was asleep. They put it in a pile near the fireplace, then went to the sleeping places they had chosen. Jondalar noticed the wooden bowl she usually took with her and used to heat small amounts of water with hot stones for medicinal teas. She had also constructed a makeshift framework of antlers, shed the previous season, to support a waterbag directly over a flame. Although the deer bladder held water, it seeped a little, which prevented it from catching on fire when it was used for heating water or cooking.

  Joharran stopped his brother to talk for a few moments. “Jondalar, I want to learn more about those spear-throwers. I saw that bison fall from your spear, and you were farther away than most. If we’d all had that weapon, we wouldn’t have had to get so close, and Shevonar might not have been trampled.”

  “You know I’ll show anyone who wants to learn, but it does take practice,” Jondalar said.

  “How long did it take you? I don’t mean to be as good as you are now, but to gain enough skill to really hunt with it?” Joharran asked.

  “We’ve been using the spear-throwers for a few years now, but by the end of the first summer, we were hunting with them,” Jondalar said. “It wasn’t until the Journey back that we got good at hunting from the backs of the horses, though. Wolf can be a help, too.”

  “It’s still hard to get used to the idea of using animals for anything besides meat or fur,” Joharran said. “I wouldn’t have believed you could if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. But it’s that spear-thrower I want to know more about. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The brothers bade a good night to each other, then Jondalar went to where Ayla was sleeping and joined her. Wolf looked up. He watched her breathing quietly in the glow from the fire, then looked back at the wolf. I’m glad he’s always there watching out for her, he thought, and stroked his head, then he slipped in beside her. He was sorry Shevonar had died, not only because he was a member of the Ninth Cave, but because he knew how hard it was on Ayla when someone died and there was nothing she could do. She was a healer, but there were some wounds no one could heal.