The Land of Painted Caves - Jean M. Auel [405]
Her large, sturdy stool was brought and the One Who Was First sat beside the newest Zelandoni and began her anxious vigil. For the first time, she became conscious of the chanting that had been continuous from the beginning, with some joining in and others dropping out as they grew tired.
We may have to bring in more people to maintain it if this wait goes on too long. Zelandoni didn’t even want to think beyond the wait. When she did, she kept in her mind the thought that Ayla would eventually wake up and she would be fine. Any other outcome was too painful to comtemplate. If I hadn’t been so curious about those intriguing new roots, would I have been more perceptive? the First wondered. Ayla did seem rather upset and nervous when she arrived, but all the zelandonia were there, and looking forward to this unique ceremony in the new cave. She had watched Ayla chewing the roots for a long time, and finally spitting them into the bowl of water, and then she decided to try some herself.
That was her first warning. The effects that she felt from that single drink were so much greater than she had anticipated. Though she’d had some bad moments, she was glad now that she did. It gave her a sense of what Ayla was going through. Who would have thought that such innocuous-looking dried roots could be so powerful? What were they? Did the plant grow anywhere nearby? It obviously had some unique properties, some of which might be beneficial for specific uses, but if there were to be any further experimentation, it would have to be under much more careful and controlled circumstances. It was a very dangerous root.
She had barely settled into the meditative state she usually assumed for long vigils when one of the zelandonia approached the First. Marthona and Proleva, along with Folara, had arrived and were asking to come in.
“Of course they can come in,” Zelandoni said. “They may be of help, and we may need it before this is over.”
When the three women were ushered in, they noticed several zelandonia were chanting over a bed near the back. Zelandoni was sitting beside it.
“What happened to Ayla?” Marthona asked when she saw her lying pallid and unmoving on the bed.
“I wish I knew for sure,” Zelandoni said. “And I’m afraid I may be largely to blame. Over the past few years, Ayla spoke occasionally about a root that was used by the … mog-urs, I think she calls them, the ones of her Clan who know of the spirits. They used it to help them enter the Spirit World, though only as part of special ceremonies, or so I understood. The way she talked about the root, I was sure she had used it, but she was always very cryptic about it. She did say that the effects were very powerful. I was intrigued, of course. Anything that can assist the zelandonia to communicate with the next world is always of interest.”
Stools were brought for the three, and cups of chamomile tea. When they were settled, the First continued.
“I didn’t know until recently that Ayla still had some of those roots, and that she believed they would still be effective. Frankly, I doubted it. Most herbs and medicinals lose strength over time. She claimed that if they were properly stored, they became concentrated, gained in strength over time. I thought perhaps a small experiment might get her to think about something besides her worries. I knew she was troubled over Jondalar, and that whole sad incident the night of the festival, especially after miscarrying when she was called …”
“You can’t believe how difficult that was for her, Zelandoni,” Marthona said. “I know it is never easy to be called—that’s part of it, I suppose—but with the miscarriage and all, I will tell you, there were moments when I thought we’d lose her. She bled so heavily,