The Mammoth Hunters

21

"Hu! Hu! Hu! That's three!" Crozie cried out, chuckling shrewdly as she counted the discs with the marked side up that had been caught in the shallow woven bowl.

"Your turn again," Nezzie said. They were sitting on the floor beside the circular pit of dry bess soil, which Talut had used to map out a hunting plan. "You still have seven to go. I'll bet two more." She made two more lines on the smoothed surface of the drawing pit.

Crozie picked up the wicker bowl and shook the seven small ivory discs together. The discs, which bellied out slightly so that they rocked when they were on a flat surface, were plain on one side; the other side was carved with lines and colored. Keeping the wide, shallow bowl near the floor, Crozie flipped the discs into the air. Then, moving it smartly across the red-bordered mat that outlined the boundaries of the playing area, she caught the discs in the basket. This time four of the discs had their marked side up and only three were plain.

"Look at that! Four! Only three to go. I'll wager five more."

Ayla, sitting on a mat nearby, sipped tea from her wooden cup and watched the old woman shake the discs together in the bowl again. Crozie threw them up and caught them once more. This time five discs had the side with marks carved into them showing.

"I win! Do you want to try again, Nezzie?"

"Well, maybe one more game," Nezzie said, reaching for the wicker bowl and shaking it. She tossed the discs in the air, and caught them in the flat basket.

"There's the black eye!" Crozie cried, pointing to a disc that had turned up a side which was colored black. "You lose! That makes twelve you owe me. Do you want to play another game?"

"No, you're too lucky today," Nezzie said, getting up.

"How about you, Ayla?" Crozie said. "Do you want to play a game?"

"I am not good at that game," Ayla said. "I do not catch all the pieces sometimes."

She had watched the gaming many times as the bitter cold of the long season deepened but had played little, and then only for practice. She knew Crozie was a serious player who did not play for practice, and had little patience with inept or indecisive players.

"Well, how about Knucklebones? You don't need any skill to play that."

"I would play, but I do not know what to bet," Ayla said.

"Nezzie and I play for marks and settle it out later."

"Now or later, I do not know what to bet."

"Certainly you have something you can wager," Crozie said, somewhat impatient to get on with the game. "Something of value."

"And you wager something of same value?"

The old woman nodded brusquely. "Of course."

Ayla frowned with concentration. "Maybe… furs, or leather, or something to make. Wait! I think I know something. Jondalar played with Mamut and bet skill. He made special knife when he lost. Is skill good to bet, Crozie?"

"Why not?" she said. "I'll mark it, here," Crozie said, smoothing the dirt with the flat side of the drawing knife. The woman picked up two objects from the ground beside her and held them out, one in each hand. "We'll count three marks to a game. If you guess right, you get a mark. If you guess wrong, I get a mark. The first one to get three, wins the game."

Ayla looked at the two metacarpal bones of a musk-ox which she held, one painted with red and black lines, the other plain. "I should pick the plain one, that is right?" she asked.

"That is right," Crozie said, a crafty gleam in her eye. "Are you ready?" She rubbed both palms together with the knucklebones inside, but she looked over at Jondalar sitting with Danug in the flintworking area. "Is he really as good as they say?" she said, cocking her head in his direction.

Ayla glanced toward the man, blond head bent close to the red-haired boy's. When she looked back around, Crozie had both hands behind her back.

"Yes. Jondalar is good," she said.

Had Crozie purposely tried to direct her attention elsewhere, to distract her? she wondered. She looked at the woman carefully, noticing the slight tilt of her shoulders, the way she held her head, the expression on her face.

Crozie brought her hands in front of her again and held them out, each closed into a fist around a bone. Ayla studied the wrinkled face, which had become blank and unexpressive, and the white-knuckled arthritic old hands. Was one hand pulled in just a trifle closer to her chest? Ayla picked the other.

"You lose!" Crozie gloated, as she opened the hand to show the bone marked with red and black. She drew a short line in the drawing pit. "Are you ready to try again?"

"Yes," Ayla said.

This time Crozie began humming to herself as she rubbed the bones together between her palms. She closed her eyes, then looked up at the ceiling and stared, as though she saw something interesting near the smoke hole. Ayla was tempted to look up to see what was so fascinating, and started to follow Crozie's gaze. Then remembering the cunning trick that had been used to divert her attention before, she quickly looked back, in time to see the crafty old woman glance between her palms as she snatched her hands behind her back. A knowing smile of grudging respect flitted across the old face. The movement of her shoulders and arm muscles gave the impression of movement between the hidden hands. Did Crozie think Ayla had glimpsed one of the bones, and was she exchanging the pieces? Or did Crozie just want her to think so?

There was more to this game than guessing, Ayla thought, and it was more interesting to play than to watch. Crozie showed her bony-knuckled fists again. Ayla looked at her carefully, not making it obvious. It wasn't polite to stare, for one thing, and on a more subtle level, she didn't want Crozie to know what she was looking for. It was hard to tell, the woman was an old hand at the game, but it did seem that the other shoulder was a shade higher, and wasn't the other hand pulled in slightly this time? Ayla chose the hand she thought Crozie wanted her to pick, the wrong one.

"Ha! You lost again!" Crozie said, elated, then quickly added, "Are you ready?"

Before Ayla could nod in agreement, Crozie had her hands behind her back, and out for her to guess, but she was leaning forward this time. Ayla resisted, smiling. The old woman was always changing something, trying to keep from giving any consistent signal. Ayla chose the hand she thought was right, and was rewarded with a mark in the drawing pit. The next time, Crozie changed her position again, lowering her hands, and Ayla guessed wrong.

"That's three! I win. But you can't really test your luck with only one game. Do you want to play another?" Crozie said.

"Yes. Would like to play again," Ayla said.

Crozie smiled, but when Ayla guessed correctly the next two times, her expression was much less agreeable. She frowned as she rubbed the musk-ox knucklebones together a third time.

"Look over there! What's that?" Crozie said, pointing with her chin, in a blatant attempt to distract the young woman.

Ayla looked, and when she looked back, the old woman was smiling again. The young woman took her time selecting the hand which held the winning bone, though she had decided quickly. She didn't want Crozie to feel too upset, but she had learned to interpret the unconscious body signals the woman made when playing the game, and she knew in which hand the plain bone was as clearly as if Crozie had told her.

It would not have pleased Crozie to know she was giving herself away so easily, but Ayla had an unusual advantage. She was so accustomed to observing and interpreting subtle details of posture and expression, it was almost instinctive. They were an essential part of the language of the Clan that communicated nuances and shades of meaning. She had noticed that body movements and postures also expressed meaning among these people who communicated primarily with verbal sounds, but that it was not purposeful.

Ayla had been so busy trying to learn the spoken language of her new people she hadn't made any real effort to understand their unconscious unspoken language. Now that she was comfortably, if not precisely, fluent, she could expand her communication to include language skills that were not normally considered a part of speaking. The game she played with Crozie made her realize how much she could learn about her own kind of people by applying the knowledge and insight she had learned from the Clan. And if the Clan could not lie because body language was impossible to hide, the ones she had known as the Others could keep secrets from her even less. They didn't even know they were "talking." She wasn't fully able to interpret the body signals of the Others, yet… but she was learning.

Ayla chose the hand that held the plain musk-ox knuckle-bone, and with a jab of irritation, Crozie marked a third line for Ayla. "The luck is yours, now," she said. "Since I won a game, and you won a game, we might as well call it even and forget the bets."

"No," Ayla said. "We bet skill. You win my skill. My skill is medicine. I will give you. I want your skill."

"What skill?" Crozie said. "My skill at gaming? That's what I do best these days, and you already beat me. What do you want me for?"

"No, not gaming. I want to make white leather," Ayla said.

Crozie gaped in surprise. "White leather?"

"White leather, like tunic you wear at adoption."

"I haven't made white leather in years," Crozie said.

"But you can make?" Ayla asked.

"Yes." Crozie's eyes softened with a distant look. "I learned as a girl, from my mother. At one time it was sacred to the Hearth of the Crane, or so the legends say. No one else could wear it…"The old woman's eyes hardened. "But that was before the Crane Hearth fell into such low esteem that even Bride Price is a pittance." She looked hard at the young woman. "What is white leather to you?"

"It is beautiful," Ayla said, which brought an involuntary softening to Crozie's eyes again. "And white is sacred to someone," she finished, looking down at her hands. "I want to make special tunic the way someone likes. Special white tunic."

Ayla didn't notice Crozie glance toward Jondalar, who happened at that moment to be staring at them. He looked aside quickly, seemingly embarrassed. The old woman shook her head at the young one, whose head was still bowed.

"And what do I get for it?" Crozie said.

"You will teach me?" Ayla said, looking up and smiling. She noticed a gleam of avarice in the old eyes, but something else, too. Something more distant, and softer. "I will make medicine for arthritis," she said, "like Mamut."

"Who says I need it?" Crozie snapped. "I'm not nearly as old as he is."

"No, you are not so old, Crozie, but you have pain. You do not say you have pain, you make other complaint, but I know, because I am medicine woman. Medicine cannot cure aching bones and joints, nothing can make it go away, but can make you feel better. Hot poultice will make easier to move and bend, and I will make medicine for pain, some for morning, some for other times," Ayla said. Then sensing the woman needed some way to save face, she added, "I need to make medicine for you, to pay my bet. It is my skill."

"Well, I guess I should let you pay your bet," Crozie said, "but I want one more thing."

"What? I will do, if I can."

"I want more of that soft white tallow that makes dry old skin feel smooth… and young," she said, quietly. Then she straightened up and snapped, "My skin always did get chapped in winter."

Ayla smiled. "I will do. Now, you tell me what is best hide for white leather, and I will ask Nezzie what is in cold rooms."

"Deerskin. Reindeer is good, though it is best to use it as a fur, for warmth. Any deer will do, red deer, elk, megaceros. Before you get the hide, though, you will need something else."

"What is that?"

"You will need to save your water."

"My water?"

"The water you pass. Not only yours, anyone's, though your own is best. Start collecting it now, even before you thaw out a deerskin. It must be left out where it's warm for a while," Crozie said.

"I usually pass water behind the curtain, in the basket with mammoth dung and ashes in it. It is thrown out."

"Don't go in the basket. Save it, in a mammoth skull basin, or a tight basket. Something that won't leak."

"Why is that water needed?"

Crozie paused and appraised the young woman before she answered. "I'm not getting any younger," she said, finally, "and I have no one, except Fralie… any more. Usually a woman passes her skills on to her children and grandchildren but Fralie has no time, and not much interest in working leather – she likes stitching and beadwork – and she has no daughters. Her sons… well, they're young. Who knows? But my mother gave me the knowledge, and I should pass it on… to someone. It's hard work, treating hides, but I've seen your leatherwork. Even the furs and skins you brought show skill, care, and that is necessary to make white leather. I haven't even thought of making it for many years, and no one else has shown much interest, but you asked. So I will tell you."

The woman bent forward and clutched Ayla's hand. "The secret of white leather is in the water you pass. That may seem strange to you, but it is true. After it is left in a warm place for a while, it changes. Then, if you soak hides in it, all the bits of fat that might be left come out, and any grease stains. The hair will come out more quickly, it won't rot easily, and it stays soft even without smoking, so it won't be tan or brown. In fact, it whitens the hide, still not true white, but close. Afterward, when it is washed and wrung out several times, and worked dry, it is ready for the white color."

If someone had asked her, Crozie could not have explained that urea, which was the major component of urine, would decompose, become ammoniacal, in a warm environment. She only knew that if urine was allowed to go stale, it became something else. Something that would both dissolve grease and act as a bleach, and in the same process, help to preserve the leather from bacterial decay. She didn't have to know why, or call it ammonia, she only had to know that it worked.

"Chalk… do we have any chalk?" Crozie asked.

"Wymez does. He said the flint he just brought back came from a chalk cliff, and he still has several stones coated with it," Ayla said.

"Why did you ask Wymez about chalk? How did you know I would agree to show you?" Crozie asked suspiciously.

"I did not. I have been wanting to make a white tunic for a long time. If you did not show me, I would try myself, but I did not know about saving the water, and I would not have thought of it. I am happy you will show me to do it right," Ayla said.

"Hmmf," was Crozie's only comment, convinced, but not wanting to admit it. "Be sure you make that soft white tallow." Then she added, "And, make some for the leather, too. I think it would be good to mix with the chalk."

Ayla held the drape aside and looked out. The late afternoon wind moaned and keened a dreary dirge, a fitting accompaniment to the drab, bleak landscape and the gray, overcast sky. She longed for some relief from the confining bitter cold, but the oppressive season seemed as though it would never come to an end. Whinney snorted and she turned around to see Mamut coming into the horse hearth. She smiled at him.

Ayla had felt a deep respect for the old shaman from the beginning, but since he had begun training her, her respect had grown into love. Partly, she perceived a strong similarity between the tall, thin, incredibly old shaman, and the short, crippled, one-eyed magician of the Clan, not in appearance but in nature. It was almost as though she had found Creb again, or at least his counterpart. Both exhibited a deep reverence and understanding for the world of the spirits, though the spirits they revered had different names; both could command awesome powers, though each was physically frail; and both were wise in the ways of people. But perhaps the strongest reason for her love was that, like Creb, Mamut had welcomed her, helped her to understand, and taken her in as a daughter of his hearth.

"I was looking for you, Ayla. I thought you might be here, with your horses," Mamut said.

"I was looking outside, wishing it was spring," Ayla said.

"This is the time most people start wishing for a change, for something new to do or see. They are getting bored, sleeping more. I think that's why we have more feasts and celebrations in the last part of winter. The Laughing Contest will be coming soon. Most people enjoy that one."

"What is the Laughing Contest?"

"Just what it sounds like. Everyone tries to make everyone else laugh. Some people wear funny clothes, or wear their clothes backward, make funny faces at each other, act funny, make jokes about each other, play tricks on each other. And if anyone gets angry about it, they get laughed at all the more. Almost everyone looks forward to it, but no celebration is as eagerly anticipated as the Spring Festival. In fact, that's why I was looking for you," Mamut said. "There are still many things you should learn before then."

"Why is the Spring Festival so special?" Ayla wasn't sure she was anticipating it.

"For many reasons, I suppose. It is both our most solemn and our happiest celebration. It marks the end of the long deep cold, and the beginning of warmth. It is said that if you watch the cycle of seasons one year, you will understand life. Most people count three seasons. Spring is the season of birth. In the gush of Her birth waters, the spring floods, the Great Earth Mother brings forth new life again. Summer, the warm season, is the time of growth and increase. Winter is the 'little death.' In spring, life is renewed again, reborn. Three seasons are enough for most purposes, but the Mammoth Hearth counts five. The Mother's sacred number is five."

In spite of her initial reservations, Ayla found herself fascinated by the training Mamut had insisted upon. She was learning so much: new ideas, new thoughts, even new ways of thinking. It was exciting to discover and think about so many new things, to be included instead of excluded. Knowledge of spirits, knowledge of numbers, even knowledge of hunting, had been kept from her when she had lived with the Clan; it was reserved for the men. Only mog-urs and their acolytes studied them in depth, and no woman could become a mog-ur. Women were not even admitted to discussions about such concepts as spirits or numbers. Hunting had been taboo for her, too, but they didn't bar women from listening; they had just assumed no woman could learn.

"I would like to go over the songs and chants we have been practicing, and I want to begin showing you something special. Symbols. I think you will find them interesting. Some are about medicine."

"Medicine symbols?" Ayla asked. Of course she was interested. They walked into the Mammoth Hearth together.

"Are you going to do anything with the white leather?" Mamut asked, putting mats by the fire near his bed. "Or are you going to save it, like the red?"

"I don't know about the red yet, but I want to make a special tunic with the white. I am learning to sew, but I feel very clumsy. It turned out so perfect, I don't want to spoil the white until I get better. Deegie is showing me, and Fralie, sometimes, when Frebec doesn't make it difficult for her."

Ayla slivered some bone and added it to the flames while Mamut brought out a rather thin oval section of ivory with a large curved surface. The oval outline had been etched into a mammoth tusk with a stone chisel, then repeated until it was a deep groove. A sharp blow accurately placed at one end detached the flake of ivory. Mamut picked out a piece of bone charcoal from the fire as Ayla got a mammoth skull and a hammer-shaped drumstick made of antler and sat down beside him.

"Before we practice with the drum, I want to show you certain symbols that we use to help us memorize things, like songs, stories, proverbs, places, times, names, anything that someone wants to remember," Mamut began. "You have been teaching us hand signals and signs, and I know you've noticed that we use certain gestures, too, though not as many as the Clan. We wave goodbye and beckon to someone if we want him to come, and it is understood. We use other hand symbols, particularly when we are describing something, or telling a story, or when One Who Serves is conducting a ceremony. Here is one that will be easy. It is similar to a Clan symbol."

Mamut made a circular motion with his hand, palm facing outward. "That means 'all,' everyone, everything," he explained, then picked up the charcoal. "Now, I can make the same motion with this piece of charcoal on the ivory, see?" he said, drawing a circle. "Now that symbol means 'all' and any time you see it, even if it is drawn by another Mamut, you will know it means 'all.'"

The old shaman enjoyed teaching Ayla. She was bright and quick to learn, but even more, her pleasure at learning was so transparent. Her face showed her feelings as he explained, her curiosity and interest, and her sheer wonder when she comprehended.

"I never would have thought of that! Can anyone learn this knowledge?" she asked.

"Some knowledge is sacred, and only those pledged to the Mammoth Hearth may be told, but most things can be learned by anyone who shows an interest. It often turns out that those who show great interest eventually dedicate themselves to the Mammoth Hearth. The sacred knowledge is often hidden behind a second meaning, or even a third meaning. Most people know this" – he drew another circle on the ivory – "means 'all,' but it has another meaning. There are many symbols for the Great Mother, this is one of them. It means Mut, the Creator of All Life. Many other lines and shapes have meaning," he continued. "This means 'water,'" he said, drawing a zigzag line.

"That was on the map, when we hunted the bison," she said. "I think it meant river."

"Yes, it can mean river. How it is drawn, or where it is drawn, or what it is drawn with can change the meaning. If it is like this," he said, making another zigzag with some additional lines, "it means the water is not drinkable. And like the circle, it has a second meaning. It is the symbol for feelings, passions, for love, and sometimes for hate. It can also be a reminder for a saying we have: the river runs silent when the water is deep."

Ayla frowned, sensing some meaning for her in the saying.

"Most Healers give the symbols meanings to help them remember, like reminders for sayings, except the sayings are about medicine or healing, and are not usually understood by anyone else," Mamut said. "I don't know many of them, but when we go to the Summer Meeting, you will meet other Healers. They can tell you more."

Ayla was interested. She remembered meeting other medicine women at the Clan Gathering, and how much she had learned from them. They had shared their treatments and remedies, even taught her new rhythms, but best of all was having other people to share experiences with. "I would like to learn more," she said. "I know only Clan medicine."

"I think you have more knowledge than you know, Ayla, certainly more than many of the Healers there will believe, at first. Some could learn from you, but I hope you understand that it may take some time before you are completely accepted." The old man watched her frown again, and wished there was some way he could ease her initial introduction. He could think of several reasons why it would not be easy for her to meet other Mamutoi, especially in large numbers. But no need to worry about that yet, he thought, and shifted the subject. "There is something about Clan medicine I'd like to ask you. Is it all just the 'memories'? Or do you have ways to help you remember?"

"How plants look, in seed, and shoot, and ripe; where they grow; what they are good for; how to mix, prepare and use them; that is from memory. Other kinds of treatments are remembered, too. I think about a new way to use something, but that is because I know how to use it," she said.

"Don't you use any symbols or reminders?"

Ayla thought for a moment, then smiling, got up and brought back her medicine bag. She dumped out the contents in front of her, an assortment of small pouches and packets carefully tied with cords and small thongs. She picked up two of them.

"This one has mint," she said, showing Mamut one, "and this one has rose hips."

"How do you know? You haven't opened them, or smelled them."

"I know because mint has a cord made from the stringy bark of a certain bush, and there are two knots on one end of the cord. The cord on the packet of rose hips is from the long hair of a horse tail, and it has three knots in a row, close together," Ayla said. "I can smell difference, too – if I don't have a cold, but some very strong medicine has little smell. It is mixed with strong-smelling leaves of plant with little medicine, so wrong medicine will not be used. Different cord, different knots, different smell, sometimes different packet. They are reminders, right?"

"Clever… very clever," Mamut said. "Yes, they are reminders. But you have to remember the cords and the knots for each one, don't you? Still, it's a good way to make sure you are using the proper medicine."

Ayla's eyes were open, but she lay still and didn't move. It was dark except for the dim nightlight of banked fires. Jondalar was just climbing into bed, trying to make as little disturbance as possible as he moved around her. She had thought of moving to the inside once, but decided against it. She didn't want to make it easy for him to slip quietly in and out of bed. He rolled up in his separate furs and lay on his side, facing the wall, unmoving. She knew he did not go to sleep quickly, and she ached to reach over and touch him, but she'd been rebuffed before and didn't want to chance it again. It had hurt when he said he was tired or pretended to be asleep, or did not respond to her.

Jondalar waited until the sound of her breathing indicated that she had finally fallen off to sleep. Then he quietly rolled over, got up on an elbow and filled his eyes with the sight of her. Her tousled hair was strewn across the furs, and one arm was flung outside the covers, baring a breast. A warmth emanated from her and a faint woman-scent. He could feel himself shaking with wanting to touch her, but he felt certain she wouldn't want him bothering her when she was sleeping. After his confused and angry reaction to her night with Ranec, he feared she didn't want him any more. Lately, every time they accidentally brushed together, she flinched back. Several times he'd considered moving to a different bed, even a different hearth, but as difficult as it was to sleep beside her, it would be far worse to sleep away from her.

A wispy tendril of hair lay across her face and moved with each breath she took. He reached over and gently moved it aside, then carefully lowered himself back down to the bed, and allowed himself to relax. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of her breathing.

Ayla awoke with the feeling that someone was looking at her. The fires were built up and daylight was coming in through the partially uncovered fireplace hole. She turned her head to see Ranec's dark intense eyes quietly watching her from the Fox Hearth. She smiled sleepily at him, and was rewarded with a big, delighted smile. She was sure the place beside her would be empty, but she reached across the piled-up furs just to make sure. Then she pushed back her covers and sat up. She knew Ranec would wait until she was up and dressed before coming into the Mammoth Hearth to visit.

It had made her uncomfortable when she first became aware that he watched her all the time. In a way, it was flattering and she knew there was no malice in his attention, but within the Clan, it was considered discourteous to stare across the boundary stones into another family's living area. There had been no more real privacy in the cave of the clan than there was in the earthlodge of the Mamutoi, but Ranec's attention felt like a mild intrusion upon her privacy – such as it was – and accentuated an undercurrent of tension she felt. Someone was always around. It had been no different when she lived with the clan, but these were people whose ways she had not grown up with. The differences were often subtle, but in the close proximity of the earthlodge, they were heightened, or she was more sensitive to them. Occasionally, she wished she could get away. After three years of loneliness in the valley, she never imagined the time would come when she would wish to be alone, but there were times when she longed for the solitude, and the freedom, of loneliness.

Ayla hurried through her usual morning routine, eating only a few bites from the food left over from the night before. The open smoke holes usually meant it was clear outside, and she decided to go out with the horses. When she pushed aside the drape that led to the annex, she saw Jondalar and Danug with the horses, and paused to reconsider.

Tending to the needs of the horses, either inside the annex, or when the weather allowed, outside, gave her some respite from people when she wanted a moment to herself, but Jondalar also seemed to like to spend time with them. When she saw him with them, she often stayed away because he left them to her whenever she joined them, with mumbled comments about not wanting to interfere in her time with her horses. She wanted to allow him time with the animals. Not only did they provide a connection between her and Jondalar, their mutual care of the horses required communication, however reserved. His desire to be with them and sensitivity toward them made her think that he might need their companionship even more than she did.

Ayla went on into the horse hearth. Perhaps with Danug there, Jondalar wouldn't be so quick to leave. As she approached them, he was already backing away, but she rushed to say something that would keep him engaged in conversation.

"Have you thought, yet, about how you are going to teach Racer, Jondalar?" Ayla asked. She smiled a greeting at Danug.

"Teach him what?" Jondalar asked, a little disconcerted by her question.

"Teach him to let you ride him."

He had been thinking about it. In fact, he had just been making a comment to Danug, in what he hoped was a casual way. He didn't want to betray his increasingly strong desire to ride the animal. Particularly when he felt thwarted by his inability to deal with Ayla's apparent attraction to Ranec, he imagined himself galloping across the steppes on the back of the brown stallion, as free as the wind, but he wasn't sure if he still should be. Perhaps she would want Ranec to ride Whinney's colt, now. "I have thought about it, but I didn't know if… how to begin," Jondalar

"I think you should keep doing what we started in the valley. Get him used to things on his back. Get him used to carrying loads. I'm not sure how to teach him to go where you want him to go. He will follow on a rope, but I don't know how he can follow a rope when you are on his back," Ayla said, talking fast, making suggestions on the spur of the moment, trying to keep him involved.

Danug watched her, then Jondalar, wishing he could say or do something that would suddenly make everything right, not only between them, but for everyone. An awkward moment of silence settled uneasily around them when Ayla stopped speaking. Danug rushed to fill the gap.

"Maybe he could hold the rope from behind, while he's sitting on the horse's back, instead of holding Racer's mane," the young man said.

Suddenly, as though someone had struck a piece of flint with iron pyrite in the dark lodge, Jondalar could visualize exactly what Danug had said. Instead of backing away, looking as though he was ready to sprint off at the first opportunity, Jondalar closed his eyes and wrinkled his forehead in concentration. "You know, that might work, Danug!" he said. Caught up in his excitement about an idea that might be a solution to a problem he had been worrying about, he forgot for a moment his uncertainty about his future. "Perhaps I could fasten something to his halter and hold it from behind. A strong cord… or a thin leather strap… two of them, maybe."

"I have some narrow thongs," Ayla said, noticing that he seemed less strained. She was pleased about his continuing interest in training the young stallion, and curious how it might work. "I will get them for you. They are inside."

Jondalar followed her through the inner arch into the Mammoth Hearth. Then stopped suddenly as she went to the storage platform to get the thong. Ranec was talking to Deegie and Tronie, and turned to flash his winning smile at Ayla. Jondalar felt his stomach churn, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He started edging back toward the opening. Ayla turned to give him a narrow roll of flexible leather.

"This is lashing, it is strong," she said, giving it to him. "I made it last winter." She looked up into the troubled blue eyes that revealed the pain, the confusion, and the indecision that tormented him. "Before you came to my valley, Jondalar. Before the Spirit of the Great Cave Lion chose you, and led you there."

He took the roll and hurried out. He couldn't stay. Whenever the carver came to the Mammoth Hearth, he had to leave. He couldn't be nearby when the dark man and Ayla were together, which was more often recently. He had watched from a distance when the younger people gathered in the larger space of the ceremonial area to spread out their work, share ideas and skills. He heard them practice music and sing, listened to their jokes and laughter. And every time he heard Ayla's laughter coupled with Ranec's, he winced.

Jondalar put the roll of lashing down near the young animal's halter, took his parka from the peg in the annex, and went outside, smiling bleakly at Danug on his way. He slipped it over his head, pulled the hood tight around his face, and stuffed his hands in the mittens dangling from the sleeves, then walked up to the steppes.

The strong wind blowing a gray rack across the sky was no more than normal for the season, and the sun shining intermittently between the high broken clouds seemed to have little effect on the temperature that remained well below freezing. The snow cover was scant, and the dry air crackled and stole moisture from his lungs in clouds of steam with each breath. He would not be out long, but the cold calmed him with its insistent demand to put survival ahead of every other consideration. He didn't know why he reacted so strongly to Ranec. Part of it, without doubt, was his fear of losing Ayla to him, and part was visualizing them together in his imagination, but there was also a nagging guilt about his own hesitation in accepting her fully and without reservation. Part of him believed Ranec deserved her more than he did. But one thing at least seemed certain. Ayla wanted him and not Ranec to try to learn to ride Racer.

Danug watched Jondalar start up the slope, then let the drape fall back, and walked slowly back inside. Racer neighed and tossed his head as the young man walked past, and Danug looked at the horse and smiled. Nearly everyone seemed to enjoy the animals now, patting and talking to them, though not with Ayla's familiarity. It seemed so natural to have horses in an annex of the lodge. How easy it was to forget the wonder and the amazement he had felt the first time he had seen them. He passed through the second archway, and saw Ayla standing beside her bed platform. He paused, then joined her.

"He's taking a walk on the steppes," he said to Ayla. "It's not a good idea to go out alone when it's cold and windy, but it's not as bad out as it can be sometimes."

"Are you trying to tell me he will be all right, Danug?" Ayla smiled at him, and he felt foolish for a moment. Of course Jondalar would be all right. He had traveled far, he could take care of himself. "Thank you," she said, "for your help, and for wanting to help," reaching over and touching his hand. Her hand was cool, but her touch warm, and he felt it with that special intensity she aroused in him, but on a deeper level, he felt that she had offered something more, her friendship.

"Maybe I'll go out and check some snares I set," he said.

"Try it this way, Ayla," Deegie said.

Deftly, she poked a hole near the edge of the leather with a small bone, a hard, tough bone from the leg of an arctic fox which had a natural sharp point, that had been made even sharper with sandstone. Then she laid a fine piece of sinew thread over the hole, and with the point of the sewing awl, pushed it through the hole. She grabbed it with her fingers from the back side of the leather and pulled the sinew through. At a corresponding place on another piece of leather which she was sewing to the first piece, she made another hole and repeated the process.

Ayla took the practice pieces of leather back. Using a square of tough mammoth skin as a thimble, she pushed the sharp arctic fox bone through the leather, making a small perforation. Then she tried to lay the thin sinew over the hole and push it through, but she couldn't seem to master the technique, and again felt thoroughly frustrated.

"I don't think I'll ever learn this, Deegie!" she wailed.

"You just have to practice, Ayla. I've been doing this since I was a girl. Of course it's easy for me, but you'll get it, if you keep trying. It's the same idea as cutting a little slit with a flint point and pulling leather lashing through to make working clothes, and you can do that just fine."

"But it is much harder to do with fine sinew and tiny holes. I can't get the sinew to go through. I feel so clumsy! I don't know how Tronie can sew on beads and quills like she does," Ayla said, looking at Fralie, who was rolling a long thin cylinder of ivory in the groove of a block of sandstone. "I was hoping she would show me, so I could decorate the white tunic after I made it, but I don't know if I'll even be able to make it the way I want."

"You will, Ayla. I don't think there is anything you can't do if you really want to," Tronie said.

"Except sing!" Deegie said.

Everyone laughed, including Ayla. Though her speaking voice was low-pitched and pleasant, singing was not one of her gifts. She could maintain a limited range of tones sufficient for the lulling monotony of a chant, and she did have an ear for music. She knew when she was off and she could whistle a melody, but any facility of voice was beyond her. The virtuosity of someone like Barzec was sheer wonder. She could listen to him all day, if he would consent to sing so long. Fralie, too, had a fine, clear, high, sweet voice, which Ayla loved to hear. In fact, most members of the Lion Camp could sing, but not Ayla.

Jokes were made about her singing and her voice, which included comments about her accent, though it was more speech mannerism than accent. She laughed as much as anyone. She couldn't sing and she knew it, and if they joked about her voice, many people had also, individually, praised her speech. They took it as a compliment that she had become so fluent in their language, so fast, and the joking about her singing made her feel that she belonged.

Everyone had some trait or characteristic that the others poked fun at: Talut's size, Ranec's color, Tulie's strength. Only Frebec took offense, so they joked about that behind his back, in sign language. The Lion Camp had also become fluent, without even thinking about it, in a modified version of the language of the Clan. As a result, Ayla wasn't the only one feeling the warmth of acceptance. Rydag, too, was included in the fun.

Ayla glanced toward him. He was sitting on a mat with Hartal on his lap, keeping the active baby occupied with a pile of bones, mostly deer vertebrae, so he wouldn't go crawling after his mother and scatter the beads she was helping Fralie make. Rydag was good with the babies. He had the patience to play with them and entertain them as long as they wished.

He smiled at her. "You not only one cannot sing, Ayla," he signed.

She smiled back. No, she thought, she was not the only one who could not sing. Rydag could not sing. Or talk. Or run and play. Or even live out a full life. In spite of her medicine, she didn't know how long he would live. He could die that day, or he could survive several years. She could only love him each day that he lived, and hope she could love him the next.

"Hartal cannot sing, either!" he signaled, and laughed with his odd guttural laugh.

Ayla chuckled, shaking her head with bemused delight. He had known what she was thinking, and made a joke about it that was clever, and funny.

Nezzie stood near the fireplace and watched them. Maybe you do not sing, Rydag, but you can talk now, she thought. He was stringing several vertebrae on a heavy cord through the spinal cord hole, and rattling them together for the baby. Without the hand-signal words, and the increased awareness they had brought of Rydag's intelligence and understanding, he would never have been allowed the responsibility of tending Hartal so his mother could work, not even right beside her. What a difference Ayla had brought to Rydag's life. This winter, no one questioned his essential humanity, except Frebec, and Nezzie was sure that was more out of stubbornness than belief.

Ayla continued to struggle with the awl and sinew. If she could only get the fine threads of sinew to go into the hole and out the other side. She tried to do it the way Deegie had shown her, but it was a knack that came from years of experience, and she was a long way from that. She dropped the practice pieces in her lap in frustration, and began watching the others making ivory beads.

A sharp blow to a mammoth tusk at the proper angle caused a fairly thin, curved section to flake off. Grooves were cut in the large flake with chisellike burins by etching a line and retracing it several times until the long pieces broke off. They were shaved and whittled into rough cylinders with scrapers and knives that peeled off long curled slivers, then they were rubbed smooth with sandstone kept wet to be more abrasive. Sharp flint blades, given a sawtooth edge and hafted to a long handle, were used to saw the ivory cylinders into small sections, and then the edges of them were smoothed.

The final step was to make a hole in the center, to string them on a cord, or to sew them to a garment. It was done with a special tool. Flint, carefully shaped into a long thin point by a skilled toolmaker, was inserted into the end of a long narrow rod, perfectly straight and smooth. The point of the hand drill was centered on a small, thick disc of ivory and then, similar to the process of making fire, the rod was rotated back and forth between the palms while exerting downward pressure, until a hole was bored through.

Ayla watched Tronie twirl the rod between her palms, concentrating on making the hole just right. It occurred to her that they were going to a lot of work to make something that had no apparent use. Beads were no help in the securing or preparing of food, and they did not make the clothing, to which they were attached, more useful. But she began to understand why the beads had such value. The Lion Camp could never have afforded such an investment of time and effort without the security of warmth and comfort, and the assurance of adequate food. Only a cooperative, well-organized group could plan and store enough necessities ahead to assure the leisure to make beads. Therefore, the more beads they wore, the more it showed that the Lion Camp was a flourishing, desirable place to live, and the more respect and status they could command from the other Camps.

She picked up the leather in her lap and the bone awl, and made the last hole she had made a little bigger, then she tried to poke the sinew through the hole with the awl. She got it through, and pulled it from the back, but it didn't have the neat look of Deegie's tight stitches. She glanced up again, discouraged, and watched Rydag thread a backbone segment on a rope through the natural hole of its spinal cord. He picked up another vertebra and poked the rather stiff rope through its hole.

Ayla took a deep breath, and picked up her work again. It wasn't so hard forcing the point through the leather, she thought. She almost pushed the whole bone through the hole. If only she could attach the thread to it, she thought, it would be easy…

She stopped and examined the small bone carefully. Then she looked at Rydag tying the ends of the rope together and shaking the backbone rattle for Hartal. She watched Tronie spinning the hand drill between her palms, then turned to look at Fralie smoothing an ivory cylinder in the groove in a small block of sandstone. Then she closed her eyes, recalling Jondalar making spear points out of bone in her valley the previous summer…

She looked at the bone-sewing awl again. "Deegie!" she cried.

"What?" the young woman answered, startled.

"I think I know a way to do it!"

"Do what?"

"Get the sinew to go through the hole. Why not put a hole through the back end of a bone with a sharp point and then put the thread through the hole? Like Rydag put that rope through those backbones. Then, you can push it all the way through the leather and the thread will follow it. What do you think? Would it work?" Ayla asked.

Deegie closed her eyes for a moment, then took the awl from Ayla and looked it over. "It would have to be a very small hole."

"The holes Tronie is making in those beads are small. Would it have to be much smaller?"

"This bone is very hard, and tough. It would not be easy to make a hole in it, and I don't see a good place for a hole."

"Couldn't we make something out of mammoth tusk, or some other kind of bone? Jondalar makes long, narrow spear points out of bone, and smooths and sharpens them with sandstone, like Fralie is doing. Couldn't we make something like a tiny spear point, and then drill a hole in the other end?" Ayla asked, tense with excitement.

Deegie considered again. "We'd have to get Wymez or someone to make a smaller drill, but… it might work. Ayla, I think it might work!"

Nearly everyone seemed to be milling around the Mammoth Hearth. They were gathered together in groups of three or four, chatting, but expectancy was in the air. Word had somehow been passed that Ayla was going to try out the new thread-puller. Several people had worked on developing it, but since it had been her idea originally, Ayla was going to be the first to use it. Wymez and Jondalar had worked together to devise a way to make a flint borer small enough to make the hole. Ranec had selected the ivory, and using his carving tools, had shaped several very small, long, pointed cylinders. Ayla had smoothed and sharpened them to her satisfaction, but Tronie had actually bored the hole.

Ayla could sense the excitement. When she got out the practice leather and the sinew, everyone gathered around, all pretense that they were only casually visiting forgotten. The hard, dry deer tendon, brown as old leather and as big around as a finger, resembled a stick of wood. It was pounded until it became a bundle of white collagen fibers that separated easily into filaments of sinew, which could be coarse strings or thin, fine thread depending upon what was wanted. She felt the moment needed drama and took time examining the sinew, then finally pulled a thin filament away. She wet it with her mouth to soften it, and bind it together, then holding the thread-puller in her left hand, she examined the small hole critically. This could be difficult, getting the thread through the hole. The sinew was starting to dry, and harden slightly, which made it easier. Ayla carefully poked the sinew thread into the tiny hole, and breathed a small sigh of relief when she pulled it through, and held up the ivory sewing point with thread dangling from the end.

Next she picked up the piece of worn leather she was using for practice, and near an edge, she jabbed in the point, making a perforation. But this time she pushed it through, and smiled when she saw it pulling the thread after itself. She held it up to show, to exclamations of wonder. Then she picked up another piece of leather that she wanted to attach, and repeated the process, though she had to use the square of mammoth hide as a thimble to force the point through the thicker, tougher hide. She pulled the two pieces together, and then made a second stitch, and held the two pieces up to show.

"It works!" Ayla said, with a big smile of victory.

She gave the leather and needle to Deegie, who made a few stitches. "It does work. Here, Mother, you try it," she said, handing the leather and the thread-puller to the headwoman.

Tulie also took a few stitches and nodded approvingly, then gave it to Nezzie, who tried it out, then let Tronie take a turn. Tronie gave it to Ranec, who tried pushing the point through both pieces at once, and discovered that thick leather was hard to penetrate.

"I think if you made a small cutting point out of flint," he said as he passed it to Wymez, "it would make it easier to poke this through heavy leather. What do you think?"

Wymez tried it and nodded agreement. "Yes, but this thread-puller is very clever."

Every person in the Camp tried the new implement, and agreed. It did make sewing much easier to have something that pulled, rather than pushed, the thread through.

Talut held the small sewing tool up and examined it from all angles, nodding his head with admiration. A long slender shaft, point at one end, hole at the other, it was an invention whose worth was recognized instantly. He wondered why no one had thought of it sooner. It was simple, so obvious once it was seen, but so effective.