The Land of Painted Caves - Jean M. Auel [117]
Though she knew some people did, she never ate the meat of carnivores. The clan who raised her didn’t like to eat animals that ate meat, and Ayla found it distasteful the few times she had tried it. She thought that if she was really hungry, she might be able to stomach it, but she was sure she’d have to be starving. These days, she didn’t even like horsemeat, though it was the favorite of many people. She knew it was because she felt so close to her horses.
It was time to gather up everything and head back to camp. She stashed the spear shafts in the special quiver, along with her spear-thrower, and put the points she had retrieved into the cavity of the wolverine. She put Jonayla on her back with the carrying blanket, then picked up her gathering basket, and tucked the bundled long stems of cattails under one arm. Then grabbing the avens stems still tied to the head of the wolverine, she started out dragging it behind her. She left its innards where they had fallen; one or more of the Mother’s creatures would come along and eat them.
When she walked into their camp, both Jondalar and Zelandoni gawked for a moment. “It’s looks like you’ve been busy,” Zelandoni said.
“I didn’t think you were going hunting,” Jondalar said, walking toward her to relieve her of some of her burdens, “especially for a wolverine.”
“I didn’t plan to,” Ayla said, then told him what had happened.
“I wondered why you were taking your weapons with you just to gather some growing things,” Zelandoni said. “Now I know.”
“Usually women go out in a group. They talk and laugh and sing, and make a lot of noise,” Ayla said. “It can be fun, but it also warns animals away.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Jondalar said, “but you’re right. Several women together probably would keep most animals away.”
“We always tell young women whenever they leave their homes, to visit, or to pick berries, or gather wood, or whatever, to go with someone,” Zelandoni said. “We wouldn’t have to tell them to talk and laugh, and make noise. That happens whenever they get together, and it is a measure of safety.”
“In the Clan, people don’t talk as much, and they don’t laugh, but they make rhythms as they walk by banging digging sticks or rocks together,” Ayla said, “and sometimes shouting and making other loud noises along with the rhythms. It’s not singing, but it feels something like music when you do it.”
Jondalar and Zelandoni looked at each other, at a loss for words. Every so often Ayla would make a comment that gave them an insight into her life when she was young and living with the Clan, and how dissimilar her childhood had been from theirs, or anyone they knew. It also gave them an insight into how much the people of the Clan were like themselves—and how much different.
“I want that wolverine fur, Jondalar. I could make a new lining around the face of a hood for you with it, and for me and Jonayla, too, but I need to skin it right away. Would you watch her?” Ayla asked.
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll help you with it, and we can both keep an eye on her,” Jondalar said.
“Why don’t you both work on that animal, and I’ll watch the baby,” Zelandoni said. “It’s not like I haven’t cared for babies before. And Wolf will help me,” she added, looking at the large, usually dangerous animal, “won’t you, Wolf?”
Ayla dragged the wolverine to a clearing some distance beyond the boundaries of their camp; she didn’t want to invite any passing scavengers into their living area. Then she took her salvaged flint points out of its belly cavity.
“Only