The clan of the cave bear_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [238]
But more astounding was her height. Somehow, when she was moving in a hurried, hunched-over shuffle or sitting at the feet of some man, they hadn’t been so aware of it before. Standing opposite the magicians, it was obvious. When she bowed her head, she looked down at the top of The Mog-ur’s. Ayla was taller, by far, than the tallest man of the Clan.
The Mog-ur made a series of formalized gestures invoking the protection of the Spirit that still hovered near them. Then Ayla put the hard, dried roots in her mouth. It was difficult for her to chew them. She didn’t have the large teeth and strong, heavy jaws of the people of the Clan. As much as Iza had cautioned her against swallowing any of the juices that formed in her mouth, she couldn’t help it. She didn’t really know how long it was supposed to take to soften the roots, but it seemed to her she had to chew and chew and chew. By the time she spat out the last of the masticated pulp, she was feeling light-headed. She stirred it until the fluid in the ancient, sacred bowl turned a watery white, then she passed it to Goov.
The acolytes had waited while she worked at the roots, each holding a bowl of long-steeped datura tea. Goov handed the bowl of white liquid Ayla gave him to Mog-ur, then picked up his bowl and gave it to Ayla as the other apprentice magicians gave theirs to the medicine women of their clans. An exchange in kind and value. The Mog-ur took a sip of the liquid.
“It’s strong,” the holy man motioned in guarded gestures to Goov. “Give less.” Goov nodded and took the bowl, then walked to the mog-ur who was second.
Ayla and the medicine women carried their bowls to the waiting women and gave controlled amounts of the liquid to them and the older girls. Ayla drained the last dregs from her bowl, but she was already feeling a strange sense of distance, as though a part of her was detached and watching from some other place. Several of the older medicine women took up the wooden drums and began to beat out the rhythms of the women’s dance. Ayla watched the moving sticks with intense fascination, each beat sounding precise and clear. The medicine woman of Norg’s clan offered a bowl drum to her. She listened to the rhythm, tapping lightly, then found herself playing along.
Time lost all meaning. When she looked up, the men were gone and the women gyrating with a wildly free, erotic frenzy. She felt an urge to join them, put the drum down, and watched it fall over and spin a few times before it stopped. Her attention was diverted by the bowl shape of the instrument. It reminded her of Iza’s bowl, the precious ancient relic entrusted to her care. She remembered staring into the white, watery liquid, her finger stirring it round and round. Where is Iza’s bowl? she thought. What happened to it? She dwelled on the bowl, worried over it, became obsessed with it.
She had an image of Iza and tears came to her eyes. Iza’s bowl. I’ve lost Iza’s bowl. Her beautiful ancient bowl. Passed on by her mother, and her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother’s mother. In her mind she saw Iza, and another Iza behind her, and another and another; medicine woman after medicine woman lined up behind Iza into an ancient misty past, each holding a venerable, white-stained bowl. The women faded, and her mind’s eye zoomed in on the bowl. Then, suddenly, the bowl cracked, fell away in two parts, broken down the center. No! No! The scream was inside her mind. She was frantic. Iza’s bowl, I’ve got to find Iza’s bowl.
She stumbled away from the women and staggered toward the cave. It took forever. She scrambled through bone platters and wooden bowls holding the remains of the feast congealed in them, searching for the treasured container. The cave entrance drew her, dimly outlined by torches within, and she stumbled toward it. Suddenly her way was blocked. She was