The clan of the cave bear_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [120]
The results were beginning to be noticed, and it made the men uneasy.
“I found another wolverine, or what was left of it, not far from the practice field,” Crug motioned.
“And there were pieces of fur, looked like a wolf, over the ridge halfway down the hill,” Goov added.
“It’s always the meat eaters, the stronger animals, not female totems,” Broud said. “Grod says we should talk to Mog-ur.”
“Small and middle-sized ones, but not the big cats. Deer and horses, sheep and mountain goats, even boars are always hunted by the big cats and wolves and hyenas, but what’s hunting the smaller hunters? I’ve never seen so many of them killed,” Crug remarked.
“That’s what I’d like to know, what’s killing them? It’s not that I mind a few less hyenas or wolves around, but if it’s not us … Is Grod going to talk to Mog-ur? Do you think it could be a spirit?” The young man quelled a shudder.
“And if it is a spirit, is it a good spirit who is helping us or an evil spirit who is angry at our totems?” Goov asked.
“Leave it to you, Goov, to come up with a question like that. You’re Mog-ur’s acolyte, what do you think?” Crug returned.
“I think it will take deep meditation and consultation with the spirits to answer that question.”
“You already sound like a mog-ur, Goov. Never give a direct answer,” Broud quipped.
“Well, what’s your answer, Broud?” the acolyte countered. “Can you give one any more direct? What’s killing the animals?”
“I’m not a mog-ur, or even training to be one. Don’t ask me.”
Ayla was working nearby and repressed a desire to smile. So now I’m a spirit, but they can’t figure out if I’m a good one or a bad one.
Mog-ur approached unnoticed, but he had seen the discussion. “I don’t have an answer yet, Broud,” the magician motioned. “It will take meditation. But I will say this, it is not the normal way of spirits.”
Spirits, Mog-ur thought to himself, might make it too hot or too cold, or bring too much rain or snow, or drive herds away, or bring disease, or make thunder or lightning or earthquakes, but they don’t usually cause the death of individual animals. This mystery has the feel of a human hand. Ayla got up and walked to the cave and the magician watched her go. There’s something different about her, she has changed, Creb mused. He noticed Broud’s eyes had followed her, too, and they were filled with frustrated malice. Broud’s noticed the difference, too. Maybe it’s just that she’s not really Clan and walks differently, she is growing up. Something nagged at the edge of his mind that made Creb feel that wasn’t the answer.
Ayla had changed. As her hunting skill grew, she developed an assurance and sinewy grace unknown to Clan women. She had the silent walk of an experienced hunter, a tight muscular control of her young body, a confidence in her own reflexes, and a far-seeing look in her eye that clouded over imperceptibly whenever Broud began to harass her, as though she wasn’t really seeing him. She jumped just as quickly to his commands, but her response lacked the edge of fear no matter how he cuffed her.
Her composure, her confidence, was far more intangible, but no less apparent to Broud, than the near-open rebellion of earlier times. It was as though she was condescending to obey him, as though she knew something he didn’t. He watched her, trying to discern the subtle shift, trying to find something to punish her for, but it eluded him.
Broud didn’t know how she did it, but every time he tried to assert his superiority, she made him feel below her, inferior to her. It frustrated him, infuriated him, but the more he kept after her, the less control he felt over her, and he hated her for it. But gradually, he found himself harassing her less, even staying away from her, only occasionally remembering to demonstrate his prerogatives. As the season came to an end, his hatred intensified. Someday he would break her, he vowed to himself. Someday he would make her pay for the wounds she inflicted on his self-esteem. Oh, yes, someday she would be sorry.