The Mammoth Hunters - Jean M. Auel [90]
“That one is not used for a weapon,” Wymez said, pleased by the praise of a fellow craftsman. “I made it as a model to show the technique.”
Ayla was craning her neck to look at the exquisitely crafted tools nestled in the soft leather on the ground, not daring to touch. She had never seen such beautifully made points. They were of variable sizes and types. Besides the leaf-shaped ones, there were asymmetrical shouldered points that tapered sharply back on one side to a projecting shank, which would be inserted in a handle so it could be used as a knife, and more symmetrical stemmed points with a centered tang that might be spear points or knives of another kind.
“Would you like to examine them closer?” Wymez asked.
Her eyes gleaming with wonder, she picked each one up, handling them as though they were precious jewels. They very nearly were.
“Flint is … smooth … alive,” Ayla said. “Not see flint like this before.”
Wymez smiled. “You have discovered the secret, Ayla,” he said. “That is what makes these points possible.”
“Do you have flint like this nearby?” Jondalar asked, incredulous. “I’ve never seen any quite like it, either.”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oh, we can get good-quality flint. A large Camp to the north lives near a good flint mine. That’s where Danug has been. But this stone has been specially treated … by fire.”
“By fire!?” Jondalar exclaimed.
“Yes. By fire. Heating changes the stone. Heating is what makes it feel so smooth”—Wymez looked at Ayla—“so alive. And heating is what gives the stone its special qualities.” While he was talking, he picked up a nodule of flint that showed definite signs of having been in a fire. It was sooty and charred, and the chalky outer cortex was a much deeper color when he cracked it open with a blow from a hammerstone. “It was an accident the first time. A piece of flint fell in a fireplace. It was a big, hot fire—you know how hot a fire it takes to burn bone?”
Ayla nodded her head knowingly. Jondalar shrugged, he hadn’t paid much attention, but since Ayla seemed to know, he was willing to accept it.
“I was going to roll the flint out, but Nezzie decided, since it was there, it would make a good support for a dish to catch drippings from a roast she was cooking. It turned out that the drippings caught fire, and ruined a good ivory platter. I replaced it for her, since it turned out to be such a stroke of good fortune. But I almost discarded the stone at first. It was all burnt like this, and I avoided using it until I was low on material. The first time I cracked it open, I thought it was ruined. Look at it, you can see why,” Wymez said, giving them each a piece.
“The flint is darker, and it does have that slick feel,” Jondalar said.
“It happened that I was experimenting with Aterian spear points trying to improve on their technique. Since I was just trying out new ideas, I thought it didn’t matter if the stone was less than perfect. But as soon as I started working with it, I noticed the difference. It happened shortly after I returned, Ranec was still a boy. I’ve been perfecting it ever since.”
“What kind of difference do you mean?” Jondalar asked.
“You try it, Jondalar, you’ll see.”
Jondalar picked up his hammerstone, an oval stone, dented and chipped from use, that fit comfortably in his hand, and began knocking off the balance of the chalky cortex in preparation for working it.
“When flint is heated very hot before it is worked,” Wymez continued while Jondalar worked, “control over the material is much greater. Very small chips, much finer, thinner, and longer, can be removed by applying pressure. You can make the stone take almost any shape you want.”
Wymez wrapped his left hand with, a small rag of leather to protect it from the sharp edges, then positioned another piece of flint, recently flaked from one of the burned hunks, in his left hand, to demonstrate. With his right hand, he picked up a short, tapered bone retoucher. He placed the pointed end of the bone against the edge of the flint and