The Mammoth Hunters

9

"You have a future claim on me, Jondalar," Tulie stated. "I admit I might have given you an outside chance to beat Talut, but never would I have believed the woman could. I'd like to see that… aah… what do you call it?"

"A spear-thrower. I don't know what else to call it. I got the idea from Ayla, when I was watching her with her sling one day. I kept thinking, if only I could throw a spear as far, and as fast, and as well as she can throw a stone with a sling. Then I started thinking about how to do it," Jondalar said.

"You've talked about her skill before. Is she really that good?" Tulie asked.

Jondalar smiled. "Ayla, why don't you get your sling and show Tulie?"

Ayla's brow creased. She wasn't used to public demonstrations. She had perfected her skill in secret, and after she was grudgingly allowed to hunt, she always went out alone. It had made both the clan and her uncomfortable for them to see her use a hunting weapon. Jondalar was the first one who ever hunted with her, and the first to see her display her self-taught expertise. She watched the smiling man for a moment. He was relaxed, confident. She could detect no cues warning her to refuse.

She nodded her head and went to get her sling and the bag of stones from Rydag, to whom she had given them when she decided to throw the spear. The boy was smiling at her from Whinney's back, feeling a part of the excitement, delighted at the stir she had caused.

She looked around for targets. She noticed the upright mammoth rib bones and sighted on them first. The resonant, almost musical, sound of stones hitting bone left no doubt that she had hit the posts, but that was too easy. She looked around trying to find something else to hit. She was used to searching out birds and small animals to hunt, not objects to throw stones at.

Jondalar knew she could do much more than hit posts, and recalling one afternoon during the summer just past, his smile turned into a grin as he looked around, then kicked loose some clods of dirt. "Ayla," he called.

She turned, and looking down the throwing lane, saw him standing with legs apart, his hands on his hips, and a clod of dirt balanced on each shoulder. She frowned. He had done something similar once before with two rocks, and she didn't like to see him put himself in jeopardy. Stones from a sling could be fatal. But, when she thought about it, she had to admit that it was more dangerous in appearance than in actuality. Two unmoving objects should be an easy target for her. She hadn't missed a shot like that in years. Why should she miss it now, just because a man happened to be supporting the objects – the man she loved?

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded again. Picking out two stones from the pouch on the ground at her feet, she brought together the two ends of the leather strap and fitted one of the stones into the worn pocket in the middle, holding the other stone in readiness. Then she looked up.

A nervous stillness hovered over and filled the empty spaces around the onlookers. No one spoke. No one even breathed, it seemed. All was quiet, except for the screaming tension in the air.

Ayla concentrated on the man with the clumps of dirt on his shoulders. When she started to move, the entire Camp strained forward. With the lithe grace and subtle movement of a trained hunter who has learned to signal her intention as little as possible, the young woman wound up and let fly the first missile.

Even before the first stone had reached its mark, she was readying the second. The hard clump of dirt on Jondalar's right shoulder exploded with the impact of the harder stone. Then, before anyone was even aware she had cast it, the second stone followed the first, pulverizing the lump of gray-brown bess soil on his left shoulder in a cloud of dust. It happened so fast some of the watchers felt as though they'd missed it, or that it was a trick of some kind.

It was a trick, a trick of skill few could have duplicated. No one had taught Ayla to use a sling. She had learned by secretly watching the men of Brun's clan, and by trial and error, and practice. She had developed the rapid-fire double stone throw technique as a means of self-defense after she'd missed her first shot once, and barely escaped an attacking lynx. She didn't know that most people would have said it was impossible; there had been no one to tell her.

Though she didn't realize it, it was doubtful if she would ever meet anyone who could match her skill, and it didn't matter to her in the least. Pitting herself against another to see who was best was of no interest to her. Her only competition was with herself; her only desire was to better her own skill. She knew her capabilities, and when she thought of a new technique, such as the double stone throw or hunting from horseback, she tried several approaches and when she found one that seemed to work, she practiced until she could do it.

In every human activity, a few people, through concentration and practice, and deep desire, can become so skilled that they excel all others. Ayla was such an expert with her sling.

There was a moment of silence as people released held breaths, then murmurs of surprise, then Ranec began slapping his thighs with his hands. Soon the entire Camp was applauding in the same way. Ayla wasn't sure what it meant, and glanced at Jondalar. He was beaming with delight, and she began to sense the applause was a sign of approval.

Tulie was applauding, too, though in a somewhat more restrained manner than some of the others, not wanting to seem too impressed, though Jondalar felt sure she was.

"If you think that was something, watch this!" he said, reaching down for two more hard lumps of dirt. He saw that Ayla was watching him, and was ready with two more stones. He threw both chunks into the air at one time. Ayla discharged one and then the other in a burst of dust and falling dirt. He threw up two more, and she blasted them before they hit the ground.

Talut's eyes were gleaming with excitement. "She is goad!" he said.

"You throw two up," Jondalar said to him. Then he caught Ayla's eye and picked up two more hunks of dirt himself and held them up to show her. She reached into the pouch and came up holding four stones, two in each hand. It would take exceptional coordination just to load and throw four stones with a sling before four clods thrown up in the air fell back to earth, but to do it with enough accuracy to hit them would be a challenge that would certainly test her skill. Jondalar overheard Barzec and Manuv making a wager between themselves; Manuv was betting on Ayla. After saving little Nuvie's life, he was sure she could do anything.

Jondalar hurled the clods up, one after the other, with his strong right hand as Talut heaved two more dry clumps of dirt as high as he could into the air.

The first two, one of Jondalar's and one of Talut's, were hit in quick succession. Dirt rained down from the collision, but it took extra time to transfer the additional stones from one hand to the other. Jondalar's other clump was falling, and Talut's was slowing as it neared the top of its arc, before Ayla could ready the sling again. She sighted on the lowest target, gaining speed as it was falling, and flung a stone out of the sling. She watched it hit, waiting longer than she should have before reaching again for the loose end of the sling. She would have to hurry.

With a smooth motion, Ayla put the last stone into the sling, and then, faster than anyone could believe, whipped it out again, shattering the last lump of dirt just before it hit the ground.

The Camp burst into shouts of approval and congratulations, and thigh-slapping applause.

"That was quite a demonstration, Ayla," Tulie said, her voice warm with praise. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like it."

"I thank you," Ayla answered, flushed with pleasure from the headwoman's response, as well as her achievement. More people crowded around her, full of compliments. She smiled shyly, then looked for Jondalar, feeling a little uncomfortable with all the attention. He was talking to Wymez and Talut, who had Rugie on his shoulders and Latie at his side. He saw her looking at him, and smiled, but kept on talking.

"Ayla, how did you ever learn to handle a sling like that?" Deegie asked.

"And where? Who taught you?" Crozie asked.

"I would like to learn to do that," Danug added, shyly. The tall young man was standing behind the others looking at Ayla with adoring eyes. The first time he saw her, Ayla had awakened youthful stirrings in Danug. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and that Jondalar, whom he admired, was very lucky. But after his ride on the horse, and now her demonstration of skill, his budding interest had suddenly blossomed into a full-blown crush.

Ayla gave him a tentative smile.

"Perhaps you'll give us some instruction, when you and Jondalar show us your spear-throwers," Tulie suggested.

"Yes. I wouldn't mind knowing how to use a sling like that, but that spear-thrower really looks interesting, if it's reasonably accurate," Tornec added.

Ayla backed up. The questions and the crowding were making her nervous. "Spear-thrower is accurate… if hand is accurate," she said, remembering how diligently she and Jondalar had practiced with the implement. Nothing was accurate by itself.

"That's always the way. The hand, and the eye, make the artist, Ayla," Ranec said, reaching for her hand and looking into her eyes. "Do you know how beautiful, how graceful you were? You are an artist with a sling."

The dark eyes that looked into hers held her, compelled her to see the strong attraction, and pulled from the woman in her a response as ancient as life itself. But her heart beat with a warning as well; this was not the right man. This was not the man she loved. The feeling Ranec drew from her was undeniable, but of a different nature.

She forced her eyes away, looked frantically around for Jondalar… and found him. He was staring at them, and his vivid blue eyes were filled with fire and ice, and pain.

Ayla pulled her hand away from Ranec and backed off. It was too much. All the questions and crowding, and uncontrollable emotions overpowering her. Her stomach tightened into a knot, her chest pounded, her throat ached; she had to get away. She saw Whinney with Rydag still on her back, and without thinking, swooped up the pouch of stones with the hand that still held her sling as she raced toward the horse.

She vaulted onto the mare's back and wrapped a protective arm around the boy as she leaned forward. With the signals of pressure and movement, and the subtle, inexplicable communication between horse and woman, Whinney sensed her need to flee and, leaping to a start, raced across the open plains in a fast gallop. Racer followed behind, keeping up with his dam with no trouble.

The people of the Lion Camp were stunned. Most of them had no idea why Ayla had run for her horse, and only a few had seen her ride hard. The woman, long blond hair flying in the wind behind her, clinging to the back of the galloping mare, was a startling and awesome sight, and more than one would have gladly traded places with Rydag. Nezzie felt a twinge of worry for him, then, feeling that Ayla wouldn't let him come to harm, she relaxed.

The boy didn't know why he had been granted this rare treat, but his eyes glistened with delight. Though the excitement caused his heart to pound a bit, with Ayla's arm around him, he felt no fear, only a breathless wonder to be racing into the wind.

Flight from the scene of her distress and the familiar feel and sound of the horse relieved Ayla's tension. As she relaxed, she noticed Rydag's heart beating against her arm with its peculiar, indistinct rumbling sound, and felt a moment's concern. She wondered if she was wise to have taken him with her, then realized the heartbeat, though abnormal, was not unduly stressed.

She slowed the horse, and making a wide circle, headed back. As they neared the throwing course, they passed near a pair of ptarmigan, their mottled summer plumage not yet fully changed to winter white, concealed in the high grass. The horses flushed them out. Out of habit, as they took to the air, Ayla readied her sling, then looked down and saw that Rydag had two stones in his hand from the pouch he held in front of him. She took them, and guiding Whinney with her thighs, she knocked one of the low-flying fat fowl down from the sky, and then the other.

She halted Whinney and, holding Rydag, slid off the mare's back with the boy in her arms. She put him down and retrieved the birds, wrung their necks, and with a few stringy stalks of standing hay, she tied together their feathered feet. Though they could fly fast and far when they chose, ptarmigan did not fly south. Instead, with a heavy winter girth of white feathers that camouflaged and warmed their bodies and made snowshoes of their feet, they endured the bitter season, feeding on seed and twigs, and when a blizzard struck, scratched out small caves in the snow to wait it out.

Ayla put Rydag on Whinney's back again. "Will you hold the ptarmigan?" she signed.

"You will let me?" he signaled back, his sheer joy showing in more than his hand signs. He had never run fast just for the pleasure of running fast; for the first time he felt what it was like. He had never hunted or really understood the complex feelings that came from the exercise of intelligence and skill in the pursuit of sustenance for himself and his people. This was as close as he had ever come; it was as close as he ever could.

Ayla smiled, draped the birds across the horse's withers in front of Rydag, then turned and started walking toward the throwing course. Whinney followed. Ayla wasn't in a hurry to get back, she was still upset, remembering Jondalar's angry look. Why does he get so angry? One moment he was smiling at her, so pleased… when everyone was crowding in on her. But when Ranec… She flushed, remembering the dark eyes, the smooth voice. Others! she thought, shaking her head as if to clear her mind. I don't understand these Others!

The wind blowing from her back whipped tendrils of her long hair in her face. Annoyed, she brushed them out of her way with her hand. She had thought several times about braiding her hair again, the way she had worn it when she lived alone in the valley, but Jondalar liked her hair worn loose, so she left it down. It was a nuisance sometimes. Then, with a touch of irritation, she noticed that she still held her sling in her hand because she had no place to put it, no convenient thong to tuck it in. She wasn't even able to wear her medicine bag with these clothes that she wore because Jondalar liked them; she had always tied it to the thong that held her wrap closed.

She lifted her hand to push her hair out of her eyes again, and then noticed her sling. She stopped, and pulling her hair back out of her eyes, she wrapped the supple leather sling around her head. Tucking the loose end under, she smiled, pleased with herself. It seemed to work. Her hair still hung loose down her back, but the sling kept her hair out of her eyes, and her head seemed to be a good place to carry her sling.

Most people assumed Ayla's flying leap on the horse, and the fast ride ending with the quick dispatch of the ptarmigan, were part of her sling demonstration. She refrained from correcting them, but she avoided looking at Jondalar and Ranec.

Jondalar knew she was upset when she turned and ran, and was sure the fault was his. He was sorry, mentally chided himself, but was having trouble coping with his unfamiliar mixed emotions, and didn't know how to tell her. Ranec hadn't realized the depth of Ayla's distress. He knew he was provoking some feeling from her, and suspected that may have contributed to her disconcerted rush toward the horse, but he thought her actions were naive and charming. He was finding himself even more attracted to her and wondered just how strong her feeling was for the big blond man.

Children were racing up and down the throwing course again when she returned. Nezzie came for Rydag, and took the birds as well. Ayla let the horses go. They moved off and began to graze. Ayla stayed to watch when a friendly disagreement led several people to an informal spear-throwing contest, which then led them to an activity beyond her realm of experience. They played a game. She understood competitions, contests that tested necessary skills – who could run the fastest or throw a spear the farthest – but not an activity whose object seemed to be simply enjoyment, with the testing or improving of essential skills incidental.

Several hoops were brought up from the lodge. They were about the size that would fit over a thigh, and had been made of strips of wet rawhide, braided and allowed to dry stiff, then wrapped tightly with bear grass. Sharpened feathered shafts – light spears, but not tipped with bone or flint points – were also part of the equipment.

The hoops were rolled on the ground, and the shafts thrown at them. When someone stopped a hoop by throwing a shaft through the hole and embedding it in the ground, shouts and thigh-slapping applause signaled approval. The game, which also involved the counting words and this thing called wagering, had aroused great excitement, and Ayla was fascinated. Both men and women played, but took turns rolling the hoops and throwing the shafts, as though they were opposing each other.

Finally, some conclusion was reached. Several people headed back to the lodge. Deegie, flushed with excitement, was among them. Ayla joined her.

"This day seems to be turning into a festival," Deegie said. "Contests, games, and it looks like we're going to have a real feast. Nezzie's stew, Talut's bouza, Ranec's dish. What are you going to do with the ptarmigan?"

"I have special way I like to cook. You think I should make?"

"Why not? It would add to the feast to have another special dish."

Before they reached the lodge, preparations for the feast were evident in the delicious cooking smells that reached out with tantalizing promise. Nezzie's stew was largely responsible. It was quietly bubbling in the large cooking hide, tended at the moment by Latie and Brinan, though everyone seemed to be involved in some way with food preparations. Ayla had been interested in the stew cooking arrangement, and had watched Nezzie and Deegie set it up.

In a large pothole that had been dug near a fireplace, hot coals were placed on top of ashes, accumulated from previous use, that lined the bottom. A layer of powdered, dried mammoth dung was poured on the coals, and on top of that was placed a large, thick piece of mammoth hide supported by a frame, and filled with water. The coals smoldering under the dung began to heat the water, but by the time the dung caught fire, enough of the fuel had been burned away that the hide no longer rested on it, but was supported by the frame. The liquid slowly seeping through the hide, though it had reached boiling, kept the leather from catching fire. When the fuel under the cooking hide was burned away, the stew was kept boiling by the addition of river stones that had been heated red hot in the fireplace, a chore some children were tending to.

Ayla plucked the two ptarmigan and gutted them, using a small flint knife. It had no handle, but the back had been dulled by retouching to prevent cutting the user, and a notch had been chipped away from behind the point. It was held with the thumb and index finger on either side, and the forefinger on the notch, making it easy to control. It was not a knife for heavy work, only for cutting meat or leather, and Ayla had only learned to use it since she arrived, but found it very convenient.

She had always cooked her ptarmigan in a pit lined with stones in which a fire was lit and allowed to go out before the birds were put in and covered over. But large stones were not easy to find in this region, so she decided to adapt the stewpot heating pit to her use. It was the wrong season for the greens she liked to use – coltsfoot, nettles, pigweed – and for ptarmigan eggs, or she would have stuffed the cavity with them, but some of the herbs in her medicine bag, used lightly, were good for seasoning as well as healing, and the hay she wrapped the birds in added a subtle flavor of its own. It might not be exactly Creb's favorite dish when she was through, but the ptarmigan should taste good, she thought.

When she finished cleaning the birds, she went inside, and saw Nezzie at the first hearth starting a fire in the large fireplace.

"I would like to cook ptarmigan in hole, like you cook stew in hole. Can I have coals?" Ayla asked.

"Of course. Is there anything else you need?"

"I have dried herbs. I like fresh greens in birds. Wrong season."

"You could look in the storage room. There are some other vegetables you might think of using, and we do have some salt," Nezzie volunteered.

Salt, Ayla thought. She hadn't cooked with salt since she left the Clan. "Yes, would like salt. Maybe vegetable. Will look. Where I find hot coals?"

"I'll give you some, as soon as I get this going."

Ayla watched Nezzie make the fire, idly at first, not paying much attention, but then she found herself intrigued. She knew, but had not really thought about it before, that they did not have many trees. They burned bone for fuel, and bone did not burn very easily. Nezzie had produced a small ember from another fireplace, and with it set fire to some fluff from the seedpods of fireweed collected for tinder. She added some dried dung, which made a hotter and stronger flame, and then small shavings and chips of bone. They did not catch hold well.

Nezzie blew at the fire to keep it going while she moved a small handle the young woman had not noticed before. Ayla heard a slight whistling sound of wind, noticed a few ashes blowing around, and saw the flame burn brighter. With the hotter flame, the bone chips began to singe around the edges, then burst into flame. And Ayla suddenly realized the source of something that had been nagging at her, something she had barely noticed but that had bothered her ever since she arrived at the Lion Camp. The smell of smoke was wrong.

She had burned some dried dung occasionally and was familiar with the strong sharp odor of its smoke, but her primary fuel had been of plant origin; she was used to the smell of wood smoke. The fuel used by the Lion Camp was of animal origin. The smell of burning bone had a different character, a quality reminiscent of a roast left too long on the fire. In combination with the dried dung, which they also used in large quantities, a distinctive pungent odor permeated the entire encampment. It wasn't unpleasant, but unfamiliar, which created in her a slight uneasiness. Now that she had identified the cause, a certain undefined tension was relieved.

Ayla smiled as she watched Nezzie add more bone, and adjust the handle, which made it burn hotter.

"How you do that?" she asked. "Make fire so hot?"

"Fire needs to breathe, too, and wind is the fire's breath. The Mother taught us that when She made women keepers of the hearth. You can see it when you give your breath to fire; when you blow on it, the fire gets hotter. We dig a trench from underneath the fireplace to the outside to bring the wind in. The trench is lined with the intestines of an animal that are blown full with air before they are dried, then covered over with bone before the dirt is put back. The trench for this hearth goes out that way, under those grass mats. See?"

Ayla looked where Nezzie pointed, and nodded.

"It comes in here," the woman continued, showing her a hollow bison horn protruding out of an opening in the side of the firepit, which was lower than the level of the floor. "But you don't always want the same amount of wind. It depends how hard it is blowing outside and how much fire you want. You block the wind, or open it up here," Nezzie said, showing her the handle that was attached to a damper made of thin scapular bone.

In concept, it seemed simple enough, but it was an ingenious idea, a true technical achievement, and essential to survival. Without it the Mammoth Hunters could not have lived on the subarctic steppes, except in a few isolated locations, for all the abundance of game. At most, they would have been seasonal visitors. In a land nearly devoid of trees, and with the harsh winters only known when glaciers advance upon the land, the forced-air fireplace enabled them to burn bone, the only fuel available in quantities large enough to allow year-round occupation.

After Nezzie got the fire started, Ayla looked through the storage rooms to see if there was anything that appealed to her to stuff the ptarmigan with. She was tempted by some dried embryos from the eggs of birds, but they would probably have to be soaked, and she wasn't sure how long that would take. She thought about using wild carrots or the peas from milk vetch pods, but changed her mind.

Then she caught sight of the woven container that still held the gruel of grains and vegetables she had stone-boiled that morning. It had been put aside to lunch on as anyone wished, and had thickened and settled. She tasted it. Without salt, people preferred distinctive, spicy flavors, and she had flavored the gruel with sage and mint, and added bitterroots, onions, and wild carrots to the mixed rye and barley grains.

With some salt, she thought, and the sunflower seeds she had seen in a storage room, and the dried currants… and perhaps coltsfoot and rose hips from her medicine bag, it might make an interesting filling for the ptarmigan. Ayla prepared and stuffed the birds, wrapped them in fresh-cut hay, and buried them in a pit with some bone coals and covered them with ashes. Then she went to see what other people were doing.

A lot of activity was going on near the entrance to the lodge and most of the Camp had congregated there. As she drew near, she saw that large piles of grain-bearing stalks had been collected. Some people were threshing, trampling, beating and flailing bunches of the stalks to free the grain from the straw and hulls. Others were removing the chaff that was left by tossing the grain into the air from wide, flat winnowing trays made of willow withes, to let the lighter husks blow away. Ranec was putting the grain in a mortar made from a hollowed-out mammoth foot bone extended by a section of leg bone. He picked up a mammoth tusk, severed crosswise, which served as the pestle, and began pounding the grains.

Soon Barzec took off his outer fur parka, and standing opposite him, picked up the heavy tusk every other stroke, so that the work alternated back and forth between them. Tornec began clapping his hands together matching the rhythm, and Manuv picked it up with a repetitive, chanting refrain.

"I-yah wo-wo, Ranec pounding grains go yah!

I-yah wo-wo, Ranec pounding grains go neh!"

Then Deegie came in on the alternating stroke harmonizing with a contrasting phrase.

"Neh neh neh neh, Barzec makes it easy yah!

Neh neh neh neh, Barzec makes it easy nah!"

Soon others were slapping their thighs, and male voices sang with Manuv while the female voices joined Deegie. Ayla felt the strong rhythm, and hummed along under her breath, not entirely sure about joining in, but enjoying it.

After a time, Wymez, who had taken off his parka, moved close beside Ranec and relieved him without missing a beat. Manuv was just as quick to change the refrain, and on the following beat sang a new line.

"Nah nah we-ye, Wymez takes the grinder yoh!"

When Barzec seemed to tire, Druwez took it from him and Deegie changed her phrase, and then Frebec took a turn.

They stopped then to check the results and poured the ground grain into a sieve basket of plaited cattail leaves, and shook it through. Then more grain was put into the bone mortar, but this time Tulie and Deegie took up the mammoth tusk pestle, and Manuv made up a refrain for both, but sang the female part in a falsetto voice that made everyone laugh. Nezzie took over from Tulie, and on an impulse, Ayla stepped up beside Deegie, which brought smiles and nods.

Deegie banged the tusk down and let go. Nezzie reached out and lifted as Ayla moved into Deegie's place. Ayla heard a "yah!" as the pestle slammed down again, and grabbed the thick, slightly curved, ivory shaft. It was heavier than she expected, bur she lifted it and heard Manuv sing.

"A-yah wa-wa, Ayla here is welcome nah!"

She almost dropped the mammoth tusk. She hadn't expected the spontaneous gesture of friendship, and on the next beat when the whole Lion Camp sang it out, both men and women, she was so moved she had to blink back tears. It was more than just a simple message of warmth and friendship to her; it was acceptance. She had found the Others, and they had made her welcome.

Tronie replaced Nezzie, and after a while Fralie made a move toward them, but Ayla shook her head, and the pregnant woman stepped back, readily acquiescing. Ayla was glad she did, but it confirmed her suspicion that Fralie was not feeling well. They continued to pound the grain, until Nezzie stopped them to pour it into the sieve and refill the mortar again.

This time Jondalar stepped up to take a turn at the tedious and difficult task of grinding the wild grain by hand, made easier by cooperative effort and fun. But he frowned when Ranec came forward, too. Suddenly the tension between the dark-skinned man and the blond visitor charged the friendly atmosphere with a subtle undercurrent of enmity.

When the two men, alternating the heavy tusk between them, began to pick up the pace, everyone felt it. As they continued to speed up, the chanting songs faded out, but some people began stamping their feet, and the clapping became louder and sharper. Imperceptibly, Jondalar and Ranec increased the force along with the pace, and instead of a cooperative work effort, it became a contest of strength and will. The pestle was slammed down so hard by one man it bounced back up for the other to grab and slam back down again.

Sweat beaded up on their foreheads, ran down their faces and into their eyes. It soaked their tunics as they kept pushing each other, faster, and harder, smashing the large heavy pestle into the mortar, one then the other, back and forth. It seemed to go on forever, but they wouldn't quit. They were breathing hard, showing signs of strain and fatigue, but refused to give in. Neither man was willing to yield to the other; it seemed each would rather die first.

Ayla was beside herself. They were pushing too hard. She looked at Talut with panic in her eyes. Talut nodded to Danug and they both moved toward the stubborn men who seemed determined to kill themselves.

"It's time to give someone else a turn!" Talut thundered, as he shoved Jondalar out of the way and grabbed the pestle. Danug snatched it away from Ranec on the rebound.

Both men were so dazed with exhaustion they hardly seemed to know the contest was over as they staggered away, gasping for breath. Ayla wanted to rush to their aid, but indecision held her back. She knew that somehow she was the cause of their struggle, and no matter which one she went to first, the other would lose face. The people of the Camp were worried, too, but reluctant to offer help. They were afraid that if they expressed their concern, it would acknowledge that the competition between the two men was more than a game, and lend credence to a rivalry that no one was ready to take so seriously.

As Jondalar and Ranec began to recover, attention shifted back to Talut and Danug, who were still pounding the grain – and making a competition of it. A friendly competition, but not any less intense. Talut was grinning at the young copy of himself as he smashed the ivory pestle into the foot bone. Danug, unsmiling, slammed it back with grim determination.

"Good for you, Danug!" Tornec shouted.

"He doesn't stand a chance," Barzec countered.

"Danug's younger," Deegie said. "Talut will give out first."

"He doesn't have Talut's stamina," Frebec disagreed.

"He doesn't have Talut's strength yet, but Danug has the stamina," Ranec said. He had finally caught his breath enough to contribute to the commentary. Though still suffering from the exertion, he saw their contest as a way to make his competition with Jondalar seem less than the dead serious effort it had been.

"Come on, Danug!". Druwez shouted.

"You can do it!" Latie added, caught up in the enthusiasm, though she wasn't sure if she meant it for Danug or Talut.

Suddenly, with a hard bang from Danug, the foot bone cracked.

"That's just enough!" Nezzie scolded. "You don't have to pound so hard you break the mortar. Now we need a new one, and I think you should make it, Talut."

"I think you are right!" Talut said, beaming with delight. "That was a good match, Danug. You have grown strong while you were away. Did you see that boy, Nezzie?"

"Look at this!" Nezzie said, removing the contents of the mortar. "This grain has been beaten to powder! I just wanted it cracked. I was going to parch it and store it. You can't parch this to keep it."

"What kind of grain is it? I'll ask Wymez, but I think my mother's people made something from grain pounded to dust," Ranec said. "I'll take some of it, if no one else wants it."

"It's mostly wheat, but some rye and oats are mixed in. Tulie already has enough for little loaves of ground grain everyone likes, they just have to be cooked. Talut wanted some grain to mix with the cattail root starch for his bouza. But you can have it all, if you want it. You worked for it."

"Talut worked for it, too. If he wants some he can have it," Ranec said.

"Use what you want, Ranec. I'll take what's left," Talut said. "The cattail root starch I have soaking is starting to ferment. I don't know what would happen if I put this in it, but it might be interesting to try it and see."

Ayla watched both Jondalar and Ranec to assure herself that they were all right. When she saw Jondalar pull off his sweaty tunic, slosh water over himself, and go into the lodge, she knew he had suffered no ill effects. Then she felt a little foolish for worrying about him so much. He was a strong, vigorous man, after all, certainly a little exertion wouldn't hurt him, or Ranec. But she avoided both of them. She was confused by their actions, and her feelings, and she wanted some time to think.

Tronie came out of the arched doorway of the lodge, looking harried. She was holding Hartal on one hip and a shallow bone dish piled with baskets and implements on the other. Ayla hurried toward her.

"I help? Hold Hartal?" she asked.

"Oh, would you?" the young mother said, handing the baby over to Ayla. "Everyone has been cooking and making special food today, and I wanted to make something for the feast, too, but I kept getting distracted. And then Hartal woke up. I fed him, but he's not in any mood to go back to sleep yet."

Tronie found a place to spread out near the big outside fireplace. Holding the baby, Ayla watched Tronie pour shelled sunflower seeds into the shallow bone dish from one of the baskets. With a piece of knucklebone – Ayla thought it came from a woolly rhinoceros – Tronie mashed the seeds to a paste. After a few more batches of seeds had been mashed, she filled another basket with water. She picked up two straight bone sticks, which had been carved and shaped for the purpose, and with one hand, she deftly plucked hot cooking stones from the fire. With a hiss and a cloud of steam, she plunked the stones in the water, pulled out cooled ones and added more hot until it came to a boil. Then she added the sunflower nut paste. Ayla was intrigued.

The cooking released the oil from the seeds, and with a large ladle, Tronie skimmed it and poured it into another container, this time made of birchbark. When she had skimmed off as much as she could, she added cracked wild grain of some indistinguishable variety and small black pigweed seeds to the boiling water, flavoring it with herbs, and added more cooking stones to keep it boiling. The birchbark containers were set off to the side to cool until the sunflower seed butter congealed. She gave Ayla a taste from the tip of the ladle, and she decided it was delicious.

"It's especially good on Tulie's loaf cakes," Tronie said. "That's why I wanted to make it. While I had boiling water, I thought I might as well make something for breakfast tomorrow. No one feels much like cooking the morning after a big festival, but children, at least, like to eat. Thanks so much for helping with Hartal."

"No give thanks. Is my pleasure. I not hold baby in long time," Ayla said, and realized it was true. She found herself looking at Hartal closely, comparing him in her mind with the babies of the Clan. Hartal had no brow ridges, but they weren't fully developed in Clan babies, either. His forehead was straighter and his head rounder, but they were not really so very different at this young age, she thought, except that Hartal laughed and giggled and cooed, and Clan babies did not make as many sounds.

The baby started to fuss a bit, when his mother went to wash off the implements. Ayla bounced him on her knee, then changed his position until she was looking at him. She talked to him and watched his interested response. That satisfied him for a while, but not long. When he got ready to cry again, Ayla whistled at him. The sound surprised him and he stopped crying to listen. She whistled again, this time making a birdsong.

Ayla had spent many long afternoons when she was alone in her valley practicing bird whistles and calls. She had become so adept at mimicking birdsong, that certain varieties came to her whistle, but those birds were not unique to the valley.

As she whistled to entertain the baby, a few birds landed nearby, and began pecking at some of the grain and seeds that had fallen from Tronie's baskets. Ayla noticed them, whistled again, and held out a finger. After some initial wariness, one brave finch hopped on her finger. Carefully, with whistles that calmed and intrigued the little creature, Ayla picked it up and brought the bird close for the baby to see. A delighted giggle and a reaching chubby fist scared it off.

Then, to her surprise, Ayla heard applause. The sound of thigh slapping caused her to look up and see the faces of most of the people of the Lion Camp smiling at her.

"How do you do it, Ayla? I know some people can imitate a bird, or an animal, but you do it so well it fools them," Tronie said. "I've never met anyone with so much control over animals."

Ayla blushed, as though she had been caught in the act of doing something… not right, caught in the act of being different. For all the smiles and approval, she felt uncomfortable. She didn't know how to answer Tronie's question. She didn't know how to explain that when you are entirely alone, you have all the time in the world to practice whistling like a bird. When there is no one in the world you can turn to, a horse or even a lion may give you companionship. When you don't know if there is anyone in the world like you, you seek contact with something living however you can.