The Clan of the Cave Bear

10

“Yes? What do you want?” Zoug gestured impatiently. It was unusually warm for so early in the summer. Zoug was thirsty and uncomfortable, sweating in the hot sun working a large deer hide with a blunt scraper as it was drying. He was not in the mood for interruptions, especially from the flat-faced, ugly girl who had just sat down near him with her head bowed waiting for him to acknowledge her.

“Would Zoug like a drink of water?” Ayla motioned, looking up demurely at his tap on her shoulder. “This girl was at the spring and saw the hunter working in the hot sun. This girl thought the hunter might be thirsty, she did not mean to interrupt,” she said with the formality proper to addressing a hunter. She offered a birchbark cup and held out the cool, dripping waterbag made from the stomach of a mountain goat.

Zoug grunted affirmatively, hiding his surprise at the girl’s thoughtfulness while she poured the cold water into the cup for him. He hadn’t been able to catch the eye of a woman to tell her he wanted a drink, and he didn’t want to get up himself just then. The hide was nearly dry. It was critical to keep working it for the finished product to be as supple and flexible as he wanted. His glance followed the girl as she put the waterbag in a shady spot nearby, then brought out a bundle of tough grasses and water-soaked woody roots to prepare to weave a basket.

Although Uka was always respectful and responded to his requests without hesitation since he had moved in with the son of his mate, she seldom tried to anticipate his needs the way his own mate had done before she died. Uka’s primary attention was directed at Grod, and Zoug had missed the special little accommodations of a devoted mate. Zoug occasionally glanced at the girl sitting near him. She was silent, intent on her work. Mog-ur has trained her well, he thought. He didn’t notice her watching him out of the corner of her eye as he pulled and stretched and scraped the damp skin.

Later that evening, the old man was sitting alone in front of the cave, staring off into the distance. The hunters were gone. Uka and two other women had gone with them, and Zoug had eaten at Goov’s hearth with Ovra. Seeing the young woman, fully adult now and mated, when it seemed not so long ago she was just an infant in Uka’s arms, made Zoug feel the passage of time that had robbed him of the strength to hunt with the men. He had left the hearth shortly after eating. He was in the midst of his thoughts when he noticed the girl coming toward him with a wicker bowl in her hands.

“This girl picked more raspberries than we can eat,” she said after he acknowledged her. “Can the hunter find room to eat them so they are not wasted?”

Zoug accepted the proffered bowl with a pleasure he couldn’t quite hide. Ayla sat quietly at a respectful distance while Zoug savored the sweet, juicy berries. When he was through, he returned the bowl and she left quickly. I don’t know why Broud says she is disrespectful, he thought, watching her go. I can’t see anything so wrong with her, except that she is remarkably ugly.

The next day, Ayla again brought water from the cool spring while Zoug worked, and set out the materials for the collecting basket she was making nearby. Later, as Zoug was just finishing rubbing fat into the soft deerskin, Mog-ur hobbled over to the old man.

“It’s hot work to cure a hide in the sun,” he motioned.

“I’m making new slings for the men, and I promised Vorn a new one, too. The leather must be very flexible for slings; it must be worked constantly while it’s drying and the fat must be completely absorbed. It’s best to do it in the sun.”

“I’m sure the hunters will be pleased to have them,” Mog-ur remarked. “It’s well known you’re the expert when it comes to slings. I’ve watched you with Vorn. He’s fortunate to have you teaching him. It’s a difficult skill to master. There must be an art to making them, too.”

Zoug beamed under the magician’s praise. “Tomorrow I will cut them out. I know the sizes for the men, but I’ll have to fit Vorn to his. A sling must suit the arm for best accuracy and power.”

“Iza and Ayla are preparing the ptarmigan you brought the other day as Mog-ur’s share. Iza is teaching the girl to cook them the way I like. Would you take your meal at Mog-ur’s hearth tonight? Ayla wanted me to ask and I would be happy for your company. Sometimes a man likes to talk to another man, and I have only females at my hearth.”

“Zoug will eat with Mog-ur,” the old man replied, obviously pleased.

Though communal feasts were frequent, and often two families shared a meal, especially if they were related, Mog-ur seldom invited others to his fire. Having a place of his own was still rather new to him, and he enjoyed relaxing in the company of his females. But he had known Zoug since boyhood, had always liked and respected him. The pleasure on the old man’s face made Mog-ur think he should have asked him before. He was glad Ayla mentioned it. Zoug had, after all, given him the ptarmigan.

Iza was not used to company. She worried and fretted and outdid herself. Her knowledge of herbs extended to seasonings as well as medicines. She knew how to use a subtle touch and compatible combinations that enhanced the flavor of foods. The meal was delicious, Ayla especially attentive in unobtrusive ways, and Mog-ur was pleased with them both. After the men had stuffed themselves, Ayla served them a delicate herb tea of chamomile and mint that Iza knew would aid digestion. With two females ready to anticipate their every wish, and a chubby contented baby, who crawled in both their laps tugging happily on beards, making them feel young again, the two old men relaxed and talked about times past. Zoug was appreciative and just a little envious of the happy hearth the old magician could call his own, and Mog-ur felt his life couldn’t be sweeter.

The next day, Ayla watched Zoug measure a leather strip to Vorn and paid close attention while the old man explained why the ends had to be tapered just so, why it should be neither too long nor too short, and saw him put a round stone that had been soaking in water in the middle of the loop to stretch the leather enough to form the cup. He was gathering up the scraps after cutting out several more slings when she brought him a drink of water.

“Does Zoug have other uses for the pieces left? The leather looks so soft,” she motioned.

Zoug felt expansive toward the attentive, admiring girl. “I have no further use for the scraps. Would you like them?”

“This girl would be grateful. I think some of the pieces are large enough to use,” she gestured with her head bowed.

The next day Zoug rather missed Ayla working beside him and bringing him water. But his task was finished, the weapons were made. He noticed her heading for the woods with her new collecting basket strapped to her back and her digging stick in her hand. She must be going to gather plants for Iza, he thought. I don’t understand Broud at all. Zoug didn’t care much for the young man; he hadn’t forgotten the attack on him earlier in the season. Why does he always keep after her? The girl is hardworking, respectful, a credit to Mog-ur. He’s fortunate to have her and Iza. Zoug was remembering the pleasant evening he had spent with the great magician, and though he never mentioned it, he recalled it was Ayla who had asked Mog-ur to invite him to share a meal with them. He watched the tall, straight-legged girl walking away. It’s a shame she’s so ugly, he thought, she’d make some man a good mate someday.

After Ayla made herself a new sling out of Zoug’s scraps to replace the old one that had finally worn out, she decided to look for a place to practice away from the cave. She was always afraid someone would catch her. She started upstream along the watercourse that flowed near the cave, then began ascending the mountain along a tributary creek, forcing her way through heavy underbrush.

She was stopped by a steep rock wall over which the creek spilled in a cascading spray. Jutting rocks, whose jagged outlines were softened by a deep cushion of lush green moss, separated the falling water bouncing from rock to rock into long thin streams that splashed up, creating veils of mist, and fell again. The water collected itself in a foaming pool that filled a shallow rocky basin at the foot of the waterfall before it continued down to meet the larger waterway. The wall presented a barrier that ran parallel to the stream, but as Ayla hiked along its base back toward the cave, the sheer drop angled up in a steep but climbable grade. At the top the ground leveled out, and as she continued she came to the upper course of the creek and began to follow it upstream again.

Moist, gray green lichen draped the pine and spruce that dominated the higher elevation. Squirrels darted up the tall trees and across the underlying turf of variegated moss, carpeting earth and stones and fallen logs alike in a continuous cover that shaded from light yellow to deep green. Ahead she could see bright sunshine filtering through the evergreen woods. As she followed the creek, the trees thinned out, intermixed with a few deciduous trees dwarfed to brush, then opened out to a clearing. She emerged from the woods into a small field whose far end terminated in the gray brown rock of the mountain, sparsely covered with clinging growth as it soared to higher reaches.

The creek, which meandered across one side of the meadow, found its source in a large spring gushing out of the side of a rock wall near a large hazelnut clump growing flush against the rock. The mountain range was honeycombed with underground fissures and chutes that filtered the glacial runoff, which appeared again as clear, sparkling springs.

Ayla crossed the high mountain meadow and drank deeply of the cold water, then stopped to examine the still unripe double and triple clusters of nuts encased in their green, prickly coverings. She picked a clump, peeled away the casing, and cracked the soft shell with her teeth, exposing a shiny white half-grown nut. She always liked unripe hazelnuts better than fully mature ones that had dropped to the ground. The taste aroused her appetite and she began to pick several clusters and put them into her basket. While reaching, she noticed a dark space behind the heavy foliage.

Cautiously, she pushed aside the branches and saw a small cave hidden by the heavy hazelnut shrubs. She forced aside the brush, looked carefully inside, then stepped in, letting the branches swing back. Sunlight dappled one wall with a pattern of light and shadows and dimly lit the interior. The small cave was about twelve feet deep and half as wide. If she reached up, she could almost touch the top of the entrance. The roof sloped down gently for about half the depth, angling more sharply down to the dry dirt floor toward the rear.

It was just a small hole in the mountain wall, but large enough for a girl to move around in comfortably. She saw a cache of rotted nuts and a few squirrel droppings near the entrance and knew the cave had not been used by anything larger. Ayla danced around in a full circle, delighted with her find. The cave seemed to be made just for her.

She went back out and looked across the glade, then climbed a short way up the bare rock and inched out on a narrow ledge that snaked around the outcrop. Far ahead, between the cleft of two hills, was the sparkling water of the inland sea. Below, she could make out a tiny figure near a thin silver ribbon of a stream. She was almost directly above the cave of the clan. Climbing back down, she walked around the perimeter of the clearing.

It’s just perfect, she thought. I can practice in the field, there’s water to drink nearby, and if it rains I can go into the cave. I can hide my sling in there, too. Then I won’t have to be afraid Creb or Iza will find it. There are even hazelnuts, and later I can bring some back for winter. The men almost never climb up this high to hunt. This will be my own place. She ran across the clearing to the creek and began looking for smooth, round pebbles to try out her new sling.

Ayla climbed to her retreat to practice every chance she could. She found a more direct, if steeper, route to her small mountain meadow and often surprised wild sheep, chamois, or shy deer from their grazing. But the animals that frequented the high pasture soon grew accustomed to her and only moved to the opposite end of the grassy clearing when she came.

When hitting the post with a stone lost its challenge as she gained skill with the sling, she set more difficult targets for herself. She watched Zoug give instructions to Vorn, then applied the advice and techniques when she practiced alone. It was a game to her, something fun to do; and to add interest, she compared her progress with Vorn’s. The sling was not his favorite weapon, it smacked of an old man’s device. He was more interested in the spear, the weapon of the primary hunters, and had managed to make a few small kills of slower-moving creatures, snakes and porcupines. He didn’t apply himself the way Ayla did and it was more difficult for him. It gave her a sense of pride and accomplishment when she knew she was better than the boy, and a subtle shift in attitude-a change that was not lost on Broud.

Females were supposed to be docile, subservient, unpretentious, and humble. The domineering young man took it as a personal affront that she didn’t cower a little when he came near. It threatened his masculinity. He watched her, trying to see what was different about her, and was quick to cuff just to see a fleeting look of fear in her eyes or to make her cringe.

Ayla tried to respond properly, did everything he commanded as quickly as she could. She didn’t know there was freedom in her step, an unconscious carry-over from roaming the forests and fields; pride in her bearing, from learning a difficult skill and doing it better than someone else; and a growing self-confidence in her mien. She didn’t know why he picked on her more than anyone else. Broud didn’t know himself why she annoyed him so much. It was indefinable, and she could no more have changed it than she could change the color of her eyes.

Part of it was his memory of the attention she had usurped from him at his manhood rites, but the real problem was she was not Clan. She had not had subservience bred into her for untold generations. She was one of the Others; a newer, younger breed, more vital, more dynamic, not controlled by hidebound traditions from a brain that was nearly all memory. Her brain followed different paths, her full, high forehead that housed forward-thinking frontal lobes gave her an understanding from a different view. She could accept the new, shape it to her will, forge it into ideas undreamed of by the Clan, and, in nature’s way, her kind was destined to supplant the ancient, dying race.

At a deep, unconscious level, Broud sensed the opposing destinies of the two. Ayla was more than a threat to his masculinity, she was a threat to his existence. His hatred of her was the hatred of the old for the new, of the traditional for the innovative, of the dying for the living. Broud’s race was too static, too unchanging. They had reached the peak of their development; there was no more room to grow. Ayla was part of nature’s new experiment, and though she tried to model herself after the women of the clan, it was only an overlay, a facade only culture-deep, assumed for the sake of survival. She was already finding ways around it, in answer to a deep need that sought an avenue of expression. And though she tried in every way she could to please the overbearing young man, inwardly she began to rebel.

One particularly trying morning, Ayla went to the pool for a drink. The men were gathered together at the opposite side of the cave opening planning their next hunt. She was glad, for it meant Broud would be gone for a while. She was sitting with a cup in her hands beside the still water, lost in thought. Why is he always so mean to me? Why does he always pick on me? I work as hard as anyone else. I do everything he wants. What good does it do to try so hard? None of the other men keep after me the way he does. I just wish he’d leave me alone.

“Ouch!” she cried involuntarily as Broud’s hard blow caught her by surprise.

Everyone stopped and looked at her, then quickly looked away. A girl so close to womanhood didn’t cry out like that just because a man cuffed her. She turned toward her tormentor, her face red with embarrassment.

“You were just staring at nothing, sitting there doing nothing, lazy girl!” Broud gesticulated. “I told you to bring us some tea and you ignored me. Why should I have to tell you more than once?”

A rising surge of anger flushed her cheeks even more. She felt humiliated by her outcry, shamed in front of the whole clan, and furious at Broud for causing it. She got up, but not with the usual quick jump to obey his command. Slowly, insolently, she got to her feet, shot Broud a look of cold hatred before she moved away to get the tea, and heard a gasp from the watching clan. How did she dare to behave with such brazenness?

Broud exploded in a rage. He sprang after her, spun her around, and plowed his fist into her face. It knocked her to the ground at his feet and he followed with another smashing blow. She cowered, trying to protect herself with her arms as he pounded her again and again. She fought to voice no sound, though silence was not expected under such abuse. Broud’s fury mounted with his violence; he wanted to hear her cry out and rained down one crashing blow after another in his uncontrolled rage. She gritted her teeth, steeling herself to the pain, stubbornly refusing to give him the satisfaction he wanted. After a time, she was beyond crying out.

Dimly, through a red foggy haze, she realized the beating had stopped. She felt Iza help her up and leaned heavily on the woman as she stumbled into the cave, nearly unconscious. Surges of pain washed over her as she wavered in and out of numbed insensibility. She was only vaguely aware of cool, soothing poultices and Iza supporting her head so that she could drink a bitter-tasting brew before she slipped into a drugged sleep.

When she awoke, the faint light of predawn barely outlined the familiar objects within the cave, feebly assisted by the dull glow of dying coals in the fireplace. She tried to rise. Every muscle and bone in her body rebelled at the movement. A moan escaped her lips, and a moment later Iza was beside her. The woman’s eyes spoke eloquently; they were filled with pain and concern for the girl. Never had she seen anyone beaten so brutally. Not even her mate at his worst had ever beaten Iza so hard. She was sure Broud would have killed her if he hadn’t been forced to stop. It was a scene Iza never thought she would see and never wanted to see again.

As her memory of the incident returned, Ayla was filled with fear and hatred. She knew she should not have been so insolent, but she had no reason to expect such a violent reaction. Why was it that she drove him to such raging outbursts?

Brun was angry, the quiet cold anger that made the whole clan walk softly and avoid him as much as possible. He had disapproved of Ayla’s impudence, but Broud’s reaction shocked him. He was right to punish the girl, but Broud had overdone the punishment by far. He didn’t even respond to the leader’s command to stop; Brun had to drag him away. Worse, his loss of control was over a female. He had allowed a girl to prod him into the emasculating display of uncontrolled rage.

After Broud’s fit of temper at the practice field, Brun had been sure the young man would never allow himself to lose control again, but now he had just thrown a tantrum that was worse than childish, worse because Broud had the powerful body of a grown man. For the first time, Brun began to seriously doubt the wisdom of Broud becoming the next leader, and it hurt the stoic man more than he cared to admit. Broud was more than the child of his mate, more than the son of his heart. Brun was sure it was his own spirit that had created him and he loved him more than life itself. He felt the young man’s failure with a stab of guilt. The fault must be his. Somewhere he had failed, he had not raised him properly, trained him properly, had shown him too much favor.

Brun waited several days before talking to Broud. He wanted to give himself time to think everything through carefully. Broud spent the time in a state of nervous agitation, hardly leaving his hearth, and it was almost a relief when Brun finally signaled him, though his heart beat with trepidation as he followed behind Brun. There was nothing in the world he feared so much as Brun’s anger, but it was Brun’s very lack of anger that brought his message home.

In simple gestures and quiet tones, Brun told Broud exactly what he had been thinking. He took the blame for Broud’s failures, and the young man felt more shame than he ever had in his life. He was made to understand Brun’s love, and his anguish, in a way he had not known before. Here was not the proud leader Broud had always respected and feared, here was a man who loved him and was deeply disappointed in him. Broud was filled with remorse.

Then Broud saw a hard look of resolution in Brun’s eyes. It nearly broke Brun’s heart, but the interests of the clan must come first.

“One more outburst, Broud. Just one more hint of such a display, and you are no longer the son of my mate. It is your place to follow me as leader, but before I will entrust the clan to a man with no self-control, I will disown you and have you cursed with death.” No emotion showed on the leader’s face as he continued. “Until I see some sign that you are a man, there is no hope that you are capable of leadership. I will be watching you, but I will be watching the other hunters, too. I will have to see more than just no outward displays of temper, I will have to know you are a man, Broud. If I have to choose someone else as leader, your status will be set at the lowest rank, permanently. Have I made myself clear?”

Broud couldn’t believe it. Disowned? Death cursed? Someone else chosen as leader? Always the lowest-ranked male? He can’t mean it. But Brun’s set jaw and hard look of determination left no doubt.

“Yes, Brun,” Broud nodded. His face was ashen.

“We will say nothing of this to the others. Such a change will be difficult for them to accept and I don’t want to cause unnecessary concern. But have no doubt I will do as I say. A leader must always put the clan’s interests before his own; it is the first thing you must learn. That is why self-control is so essential to a leader. The clan’s survival is his responsibility. A leader has less freedom than a woman, Broud. He must do many things he may not want to. If necessary, he must even disown the son of his mate. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Brun,” Broud replied. He wasn’t really sure that he did. How could a leader have less freedom than a woman? A leader could do anything, command everyone, women and men alike.

“Go now, Broud. I want to be alone.”

It was several days before Ayla was able to get up, and much longer before the purplish discolorations that covered her body turned to a sickly yellow and finally faded away. At first, she was so apprehensive that she was afraid to go near Broud, and jumped at the sight of him. But as the last ache left her, she began to notice the change in him. He no longer picked on her, no longer badgered her, positively avoided her. Once she forgot the pain, she began to feel the beating was almost worth it. Ever since then, she realized, Broud had let her entirely alone.

Life was easier for Ayla without his constant harassment. She hadn’t realized the pressure she was under until it stopped. She felt free by comparison, though her life was still as limited as the rest of the women’s. She walked with enthusiasm, sometimes breaking into an excited run or happy skip, held her head high, swung her arms freely, even laughed out loud. Her feeling of freedom translated itself into her movements. Iza knew she was happy, but her actions were uncommon and brought disapproving looks. She was just too exuberant; it wasn’t proper.

Broud’s avoidance of her was obvious to the clan, too, and the subject of speculation and wonder. From casual notice of gestured conversations, Ayla began to piece together a notion that Brun had threatened Broud with dire consequences if he hit her again, and she became convinced when the young man ignored her even when she provoked him. She was just a little careless at first, allowing her natural inclinations a freer rein, but then she began a purposeful campaign of subtle insolence. Not the brazen disrespect that had caused the beating, but small things, petty tricks calculated to annoy him. She hated him, wanted to get back at him, and felt protected by Brun.

It was a small clan, and as much as he tried to avoid her, in the course of the clan’s normal interactions, there were occasions when Broud had to tell her what to do. She made a point of being slower to respond to him. If she thought no one was watching, she’d raise her eyes and stare at him with the peculiar grimace of which only she was capable while she watched him struggle for control. She was careful when others were around, especially Brun. She had no desire to feel the leader’s wrath, but she became scornful of Broud’s anger and pitted her will against his more openly as the summer progressed.

Only when she accidentally happened to catch a glance of venomous hatred did she wonder at the wisdom of her actions. His look of hostility was so malevolently intense, it came almost as a physical blow. Broud blamed her entirely for his untenable position. If she had not been so insolent, he would not have gotten so angry. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have a death curse hanging over his head. Her happy exuberance irritated him no matter how he tried to control it. It was patently obvious her behavior was shockingly indecent. Why couldn’t the other men see it? Why did they let her get away with it? He hated her more deeply than before, but he was careful not to show it when Brun was around.

The battle between them had gone below the surface, but it was played out with fiercer intensity, and the girl was not as subtle as she thought. The whole clan was aware of the tension between them and wondered why Brun allowed it. The men, taking their cue from the leader, refrained from interference and even permitted the girl more freedom than they normally would have, but it made the clan uncomfortable, men and women both.

Brun disapproved of Ayla’s behavior; he hadn’t missed any of what she thought were subtle ploys, nor did he like seeing Broud let her get away with it. Insolence and rebellion were unacceptable from anyone, especially females. It shocked him to see the girl pitting her will against a male. No woman of the Clan would consider it. They were content with their place; their position was not a veneer of culture, it was their natural state. They understood with a deep instinct their importance to the existence of the Clan. The men could no more learn their skills than the women could learn to hunt; they hadn’t the memories for it. Why should a woman struggle and fight to change a natural state- would she struggle to stop eating, to stop breathing? If Brun hadn’t been absolutely certain she was female, he would have thought from her actions she was male. Yet she had learned the women’s skills and was even showing an aptitude for Iza’s magic.

As much as it disturbed him, Brun refrained from interfering because he could see Broud struggling for self-control. Ayla’s defiance was helping Broud master his temper, a mastery so essential to a future leader. For all that he had seriously considered finding a new successor, Brun was sympathetic where the son of his mate was concerned. Broud was a fearless hunter, and Brun was proud of his bravery. If he could learn to control his one obvious fault, Brun thought Broud would make a good leader.

Ayla was not fully aware of the tensions surrounding her. She was happier that summer than she could ever remember. She took advantage of her increased freedom to wander by herself more, collecting herbs and practicing with her sling. She didn’t shirk any chores that were required of her-she wasn’t allowed to-but one of her tasks was to bring Iza the plants she needed and it gave her an excuse to be away from the hearth. Iza never did regain her full strength, though her cough subsided with the warmth of summer. Both Creb and Iza worried about Ayla. Iza was sure things could not go on the way they were and decided to go out with the girl on a foraging trip and use the opportunity to talk to her.

“Uba, come here, mother’s ready,” Ayla said, picking up the toddler and securing her firmly to her hip with the cloak. They walked down the slope and crossed the stream to the west and continued through woods along an animal trail that had been enlarged slightly by occasional use as a path. When they came to an open meadow, Iza stopped and looked around, then headed for a stand of tall, showy, yellow flowers that resembled asters.

“This is elecampane, Ayla,” Iza said. “It usually grows in fields and open places. The leaves are large ovals with pointed ends, dark green on top and downy underneath, see?” Iza was down on her knees holding a leaf as she explained. “The rib in the middle is thick and fleshy.” Iza broke it to show her.

“Yes, mother, I see.”

“It’s the root that’s used. The plant grows from the same root every year, but it’s best to collect it the second year, late in summer or fall, then the root is smooth and solid. Cut it into small pieces and take about as much as will fit in your palm, boil it down in the small bone cup to more than half full. It should cool before it’s drunk, about two cups a day. It brings up phlegm and is especially good for the lung disease of spitting blood. It also helps to bring on sweating and to pass water.” Iza had used her digging stick to expose a root and was sitting on the ground, her hands moving rapidly as she explained. “The root can be dried and ground to a powder, too.” She dug up several roots and put them in her basket.

They moved across a small knoll, then Iza stopped again. Uba had fallen asleep, secure in her comfortable closeness. “See that little plant with the funnel-shaped yellowish flowers, purple in the middle?” Iza pointed to another plant.

Ayla touched a foot-high plant. “These?”

“Yes. That’s henbane. Very useful to a medicine woman but should never be eaten; it can be dangerously poisonous if used as food.”

“What part is used? The root?”

“Many parts. Roots, leaves, seeds. The leaves are larger than the flowers, grow one after the other on alternate sides of the stem. Pay close attention, Ayla. The leaves are a dull, pale green with spiky edges, and see the long hairs growing along the middle?” Iza touched the fine hairs while Ayla looked closely. Then the medicine woman picked a leaf and bruised it. “Smell,” she instructed. Ayla sniffed; the leaf had a strong narcotic odor.

“The smell goes away after it’s dried. Later there will be many small brown seeds.” Iza dug down and pulled out a thick, yam-shaped, corrugated root with a brown skin. The white inner color showed where it had broken. “The different parts are used for different things, but all of them are good for pain. It can be made into a tea and drunk- it’s very strong, doesn’t take much-or into a wash and applied on the skin. It stops muscle spasms, calms and relaxes, brings sleep.”

Iza gathered several plants, then walked to a nearby stand of brilliant hollyhocks and picked several of the rose, purple, white, and yellow blossoms from the tall simple stems. “Hollyhocks are good for soothing irritations, sore throats, scrapes, scratches. The flowers make a drink that can ease pain, but it makes a person sleepy. The root is good for wounds. I used hollyhock roots on your leg, Ayla.” The girl reached down and felt the four parallel scars on her thigh and thought suddenly about where she’d be now if it weren’t for Iza.

They walked along together for a while, enjoying the warm sun and the warmth of each other’s company without talking. But Iza’s eye was constantly scanning the area. The chest-high grass of the open field was golden and gone to seed. The woman looked across the field of grain, tops bent with their heavy load of mature seeds, undulating gently in the warm breeze. Then she saw something and walked purposefully through the tall stalks and stopped at a section of the rye grass whose seeds had a violet black discoloration.

“Ayla,” she said, pointing to one of the stalks. “This is not the way rye grass normally grows, it is a sickness of the seeds, but we are lucky to find it. It’s called ergot. Smell it.”

“It smells awful, like old fish!”

“But there’s magic in those sick seeds that’s especially helpful for pregnant women. If a woman is a long time in labor, it can help bring the baby faster. It causes contractions. It can start labor, too. It can make a woman lose her baby early, and that’s important, especially if she’s had problems with earlier deliveries or is still nursing. A woman shouldn’t have babies too close together, it’s hard on her, and if she loses her milk, who will feed the baby she has? Too many babies die at birth or in their first year; a mother has to take care of the one that’s already living and has a chance to grow up.

There are other plants that can help her lose the baby early if she needs to, ergot is only one. It’s good after delivery, too. It helps push out the old blood and shrink her organs back to normal. It tastes bad, not as bad as it smells, but it’s useful if used wisely. Too much can cause severe cramps, vomiting, even death.”

“It’s like henbane, it can be harmful or helpful,” Ayla commented.

“That’s often true. Many times the most poisonous plants make the best and strongest medicines, if you know how to use them.”

On the way back toward the stream, Ayla stopped and pointed to an herb with bluish purple flowers, about a foot high. “There’s some hyssop. The tea is good for coughs when you have a cold, right?”

“Yes, and it adds a nice spicy flavor to any tea. Why don’t you pick some?”

Ayla pulled out several plants by the roots and plucked off the long thin leaves as she walked. “Ayla,” the woman said. “Those roots send up new plants every year. If you pull the roots there will be no plants here next summer. It’s best just to pick off the leaves if you have no use for the roots.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Ayla said contritely. “I won’t do it again.”

“Even if you use the roots, it’s best not to dig them all up from one place. Always leave some to grow more.”

They doubled back toward the stream, and when they came to a marshy spot, Iza pointed out another plant. “This is sweet rush. It looks something like iris, but it’s not the same. The boiled root made into a wash soothes burns, and chewing the roots sometimes helps toothaches, but you must be careful when giving it to a pregnant woman. Some women have lost their babies from drinking the juice, though I’ve never had much luck with it when I gave it to a woman for that purpose. It can help an upset stomach, especially constipation. You can tell the difference by this growth here,” Iza pointed. “It’s called a corm, and the plant smells stronger, too.”

They stopped and rested in the shade of a broad-leafed maple near the stream. Ayla took a leaf, curled it into the shape of a cornucopia, folded up the bottom and tucked it under her thumb, then dipped up a cool drink from the stream. She brought a drink for Iza in the makeshift cup before throwing it away.

“Ayla,” the woman began after finishing the drink. “You should do as Broud tells you, you know. He is a man, it’s his right to command you.”

“I do everything he tells me,” she countered defensively. Iza shook her head. “But you don’t do it the way you should. You defy him, you provoke him. Someday you may regret it, Ayla. Broud will be leader one day. You must do what the men say, all the men. You are a woman, you have no choice.”

“Why should men have the right to command women? What makes them better? They can’t even have babies!” she gestured bitterly, feeling rebellious.

“That’s the way it is. That’s the way it has always been in the Clan. You are Clan now, Ayla. You are my daughter. You must behave as a girl of the Clan should.”

Ayla hung her head, feeling guilty. Iza was right, she did provoke Broud. What would have happened to her if Iza had not found her? If Brun had not let her stay? If Creb had not made her Clan? She looked at the woman, the only mother she could remember. Iza had aged. She was thin and drawn. The flesh of her once-muscular arms hung from her bones and her brown hair was almost gray. Creb had seemed so old to her at first, but he had hardly changed at all. It was Iza who looked old now, older than Creb. Ayla worried about Iza, but whenever she said anything, the woman put her off.

“You’re right, Iza,” the child said. “I haven’t behaved the way I should to Broud. I’ll try harder to please him.”

The toddler Ayla was carrying began to squirm. She looked up, suddenly brighteyed. “Uba hungry,” she motioned, then stuffed a chubby fist into her mouth.

Iza glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late, and Uba’s hungry. We’d better start back,” she gestured.

I wish Iza were strong enough to go out with me more often, Ayla said to herself as they hurried back to the cave. Then we could spend more time with each other, and I always learn so much more when she’s with me.

Though Ayla tried to live up to her decision to please Broud, she found her resolution hard to keep: She had fallen into the habit of not paying attention to him, knowing he would turn to someone else or do it himself if she didn’t move quickly. His dark looks held no fear for her, she felt secure from his wrath. She did stop trying to provoke him on purpose, but her impertinence had become a habit, too. For too long had she looked up at him instead of bowing her head, ignoring him instead of scurrying to do his bidding; it was automatic. Her unconscious disdain grated on him worse than her attempts to annoy him. He felt she had no respect for him. It wasn’t respect for him she had lost, it was fear.

The time when cold winds and heavy snows would force the clan into the cave again was drawing near. Ayla hated to see the leaves starting to turn, though autumn’s brilliant display always captivated her and its rich harvest of fruits and nuts kept the women busy. Ayla had little time to climb to her secret retreat during the last rush to lay in a supply of fall’s harvest, but the time passed so quickly she hardly noticed until near the end of the season.

The pace finally slowed and one day she strapped on her basket, took her digging stick, and climbed to her hidden clearing once more, planning to collect hazelnuts. The moment she arrived, she shrugged her basket off her back and went inside the cave for her sling. She had furnished her playhouse with a few implements she had made and an old sleeping fur. She took a birchbark cup from a flattish piece of wood stretched across two large rocks that also held a few shell dishes, a flint knife, and some rocks she used to crack nuts. Then she got her sling from the covered wicker basket where she kept it. After getting a drink from the spring, she ran along the creek looking for pebbles.

She made a few practice shots. Vorn doesn’t hit his targets as often as I do, she thought, pleased with herself when her stones landed where she aimed them. After a while, she grew tired of the sport, put her sling and the last few pebbles away, and began to pick up the nuts scattered on the ground beneath the thick, gnarled old bushes. She was thinking how wonderful life was. Uba was growing and thriving and Iza seemed much better. Creb’s aches and pains were always less severe in the warm summers and she loved the slow shambling walks with him beside the stream. Playing with the sling was a game she loved and she had become quite skillful with it. It was almost too easy to hit the post or the rocks and branches she sighted as targets, but there was still an excitement about playing with the forbidden weapon. And best of all, Broud didn’t bother her at all anymore. She didn’t think anything could ever spoil her happiness as she filled her gathering basket with nuts.

Brown, dry leaves were caught by the brisk winds as they fell from the trees, whirled around by their unseen partner, and dropped gently to the ground. They covered the nuts still scattered beneath those trees that had brought them to maturity. Fruit not picked for winter storage hung ripe and heavy on branches bereft of foliage. The eastern steppes were a golden sea of grain, rippled by wind in imitation of the foam-bedecked waves of gray water to the south; and the last of the sweet clusters of plump, round grapes, bursting with juice, beckoned to be picked.

The men were in their usual knot planning one of the last hunting trips of the season. They had been discussing the proposed trek since early morning, and Broud had been sent to tell a woman to bring them water to drink. He saw Ayla sitting near the mouth of the cave with sticks and pieces of thong spread out around her. She was constructing frames from which bunches of grapes would be hung until they dried to raisins.

“Ayla! Bring water!” Broud signaled and started back.

The girl was lashing a critical corner, supporting the unfinished frame against her body. If she moved just then, it would collapse and she’d have to start over again. She hesitated, looked to see if another woman was nearby, then heaving a sigh of reluctance, got up slowly, and went to find a large waterbag.

The young man fought to quell the anger that quickly rose at her obvious reluctance to obey him, and struggling with his fury, he looked for another woman who would respond to his request with proper alacrity. Suddenly, he changed his mind. He looked back at Ayla just getting up and narrowed his eyes. What gave her the right to be so insolent? Am I not a man? Isn’t it her place to obey me? Brun never told me to allow such disrespect, he thought. He can’t put a death curse on me just for making her do what she’s supposed to do. What kind of leader would let a female defy him? Something snapped inside Broud. Her impudence has gone on too long! I won’t let her get away with it. She will obey me!

The thoughts came to him in the split second it took to make the three strides covering the distance between them. Just as she stood up, his hard fist caught her by surprise and knocked her flat. Her startled look quickly changed to anger. She glanced around and saw Brun watching, but there was a quality about his expressionless face that warned her to expect no assistance from him. The rage in Broud’s eyes changed her anger to fear. He had seen her flash of anger and it aroused his passionate hatred of her. How dare she defy him!

Quickly, Ayla scrambled out of the way of the next blow. She ran toward the cave to find the waterbag. Broud stared after her, his fists clenched, fighting to keep his fury within manageable bounds. He glanced toward the men and saw Brun’s impassive face. There was no encouragement in his expression, but no denial either. Broud watched as Ayla hurried to the pool to fill the bag, then hoist the heavy bladder on her back. He had not missed her quick response nor her look of fear when she saw that he meant to hit her again. It made his anger a little easier to control. I’ve been too easy on her, he thought.

As Ayla passed close to Broud, bent over with the weight of the heavy waterfilled bag, he gave her a shove that nearly knocked her down again. Anger flushed her cheeks. She straightened up, shot him a quick hate-filled glance, and slowed her step. He went after her again. She ducked, taking the blow on her shoulder. The clan was watching now. The girl looked toward the men. Brun’s hard stare hurried her more than Broud’s fists had. She ran the short distance, knelt down, and began pouring water into a cup, keeping her head bowed. Broud followed slowly behind, fearful of Brun’s reaction.

“Crug was saying he saw the herd traveling north, Broud,” Brun motioned casually as Broud rejoined the group.

It was all right! Brun was not angry at him! Of course, why should he be angry? I did the right thing. Why should he make any reference to a man disciplining a female who deserved it? Broud’s sigh of relief was almost audible.

When the men were through drinking, Ayla returned to the cave. Most of the people had gone back to what they were doing, but Creb still stood at the entrance watching her.

“Creb! Broud almost beat me again,” she gestured, running up to him. She looked up at the old man she loved, but the smile on her face faded as she saw a look on his she had never seen before.

“You only got what you deserved,” he motioned with a grim scowl. His eye was hard. He turned his back on her and limped back to his hearth. Why is Creb mad at me? she thought.

Later that evening, Ayla shyly approached the old magician and reached out to put her arms around his neck, a gesture that had never failed to melt his heart before. He made no response, didn’t even bother to shrug her away. He just stared into the distance, cold and aloof. She shrunk back.

“Don’t bother me. Go find worthwhile work to do, girl. Mog-ur is meditating, he has no time for insolent females,” he motioned with an abrupt, impatient gesture.

Tears filled her eyes. She was hurt and suddenly a little frightened of the old magician. He wasn’t the Creb she knew and loved anymore. He was Mog-ur. For the first time since she came to live with the clan, she understood why everyone else kept their distance and stood in awe and fear of the great Mog-ur. He had withdrawn from her. With a look and a few gestures, he conveyed disapproval and a sense of rejection stronger than she had ever felt. He didn’t love her anymore. She wanted to hug him, to tell him she loved him, but she was afraid. She shuffled over to Iza.

“Why is Creb so angry with me?” she motioned.

“I told you before, Ayla, you should do as Broud says. He is a man, he has the right to command you,” Iza said gently.

“But, I do everything he says. I’ve never disobeyed him.” “You resist him, Ayla. You defy him. You know you are insolent. You do not behave as a well brought-up girl should. It’s a reflection on Creb-and on me. Creb feels he has not trained you properly, has allowed you too much freedom, has let you have your own way with him so you think you can have your own way with everyone. Brun is not happy with you either, and Creb knows it. You run all the time. Children run, Ayla, not girls the size of women. You make those sounds in your throat. You do not move quickly when you are told to do something. Everyone disapproves of you, Ayla. You have shamed Creb.”

“I didn’t know I was so bad, Iza,” Ayla gestured. “I did not want to be bad, I just didn’t think about it.”

“But you should think about it. You’re too big to behave like a child.” “It’s just that Broud has always been so mean to me, and he beat me so hard that time.”

“It makes no difference if he is mean or not, Ayla. He can be as mean as he wants; it’s his right, he’s a man. He can beat you anytime he wants, as hard as he wants. He will be leader someday, Ayla, you must obey him, you must do just as he says, when he says it. You have no choice,” Iza explained. She looked at the stricken face of the child. Why is it so hard for her? she wondered. Iza felt a sadness and sympathy for the girl who had such difficulty accepting the facts of life. “It’s late, Ayla, go to bed.”\

Ayla went to her sleeping place, but it was a long time before she went to sleep.She tossed and turned and slept badly when sleep did finally overcome her. She was awake early, took her basket and digging stick, and was gone before breakfast. She wanted to be alone, to think. She climbed to her secret meadow and got her sling, but she didn’t feel much like practicing.

It’s all Broud’s fault, she thought. Why does he always pick on me? What did I ever do to him? He never has liked me. So what if he’s a man, what makes men better? I don’t care if he is going to be leader, he’s not so great. He’s not even as good as Zoug with the sling. I could be as good as he is, I’m already better than Vorn. He misses a lot more than I do; Broud probably does, too. He missed when he was showing off for Vorn.

Angrily, she started slinging stones. One bounced into a copse of bushes and flushed a sleepy porcupine from his hole. The small nocturnal animals were seldom hunted. Everyone made a big thing about Vorn killing a porcupine, she thought. I could, too, if I wanted to. The animal was ambling up a sandy hill near the creek, quills extended. Ayla fitted a stone into the bulge of her leather sling, took aim, and fired the stone. The slow-moving porcupine was an easy target; it dropped to the ground.

Ayla ran toward the creature, pleased with herself. But when she touched it, she realized the porcupine wasn’t dead, only stunned. She felt his beating -heart and saw the blood trickling from the wound on his head and had a sudden impulse to bring the small animal back to the cave to heal him as she had done with so many wounded creatures. She wasn’t pleased anymore; she felt terrible. Why did I hurt him? I didn’t want to hurt him, she thought. I can’t bring him back to the cave. Iza would know right away he was hit with a stone; she’s seen too many animals killed with a sling.

The child stared at the wounded animal. I can’t ever hunt, she realized. Even if I killed an animal, I could never bring it back to the cave. What good is all this practicing with a sling? If Creb is mad at me now, what would he do if he knew? What would Brun do? I’m not even supposed to touch a weapon, much less use one. Would Brun make me go away? Ayla was overcome with guilt and fear. Where would I go? I can’t leave Iza and Creb and Uba. Who would take care of me? I don’t want to leave, she thought, bursting into tears.

I’ve been bad. I’ve been so bad, and Creb is so mad at me. I love him, I don’t want him to hate me. Oh, why is he so mad at me? Tears streamed down the unhappy girl’s face. She lay down on the ground, sobbing her misery. When she had cried herself out, she sat up and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her shoulders shaking with renewed sobs every now and then. I won’t be bad anymore, ever. Oh, I’ll be so good. I’ll do whatever Broud wants, no matter what. And I won’t ever touch a sling again. To emphasize her conviction, she threw the sling under a bush, raced to get her basket, and started down to the cave. Iza had been looking for her and saw her returning.

“Where have you been? You’ve been gone all morning and your basket is empty.”

“I’ve been thinking, mother,” Ayla motioned, looking at Iza with earnest seriousness. “You were right, I’ve been bad. I won’t be bad anymore. I will do everything Broud wants me to. And I will behave the way I should, I won’t run or anything. Do you think Creb will ever love me again, if I’m very, very good?”

“I’m sure he will, Ayla,” Iza replied, patting her gently. She’s had that sickness again, the one that makes her eyes water when she thinks Creb doesn’t love her, the woman thought, looking at Ayla’s tear-streaked face and red swollen eyes. Her heart ached for the girl. It’s just harder for her, her kind are different. But perhaps it will be better now.