The shelters of stone - Jean M. Auel [71]
Laramar proceeded to open the container. First he unwrapped a waterproof piece of cleaned intestine from a pouring spout that had been made of a single vertebra from the backbone of an aurochs. Extraneous material “around the tubular bone had been carved away and a groove cut around the outside. Then it had been inserted into a natural opening of the stomach and a strong cord tied around the skin that encircled the bone so that it was pulled into the groove, to hold it in place and make a watertight connection. Then he pulled out the stopper, a thin leather thong that had been knotted several times at one end until it was big enough to plug the central hole. It was much easier to control the flow of liquid from the flexible bag through the natural hole in the center of the solid section of spine.
Ayla had retrieved her cup from Jondalar and held it out. Laramar filled it somewhat more than half-full. Then he poured some for Jondalar. Ayla took a small sip. “This is good,” she said, smiling. “When I lived with the Mamutoi, the headman, Talut, used to make a drink similar to this out of birch sap and grains and other ingredients, but I must admit, this is better.”
Laramar looked around at the people nearby with a smirk of satisfaction.
“What is this made of?” Ayla asked, trying to get the taste.
“I don’t always make it the same way. It depends on what’s available. Sometimes I use birch sap and grains,” Laramar said, being evasive. “Can you guess what’s in it?”
She tasted again. It was harder to guess ingredients when they were fermented. “I think there are grains, perhaps birch sap or sap from some other tree, and maybe fruit, but something else, something sweet. I can’t tell the proportions, though, how much of each is used,” Ayla said.
“You have a good sense of taste,” he said, evidently impressed. “This batch does have fruit, apples that were left on a tree through a frost, which makes them a little more sweet, but the sweet you are tasting is honey.”
“Of course! Now that you mention it, I can taste honey,” Ayla said.
“I can’t always get honey, but when I can, it makes the barma better, and stronger,” Laramar said, this time with a smile that was genuine. There were not many with whom he could discuss the making of his brew.
Most people had a craft, something in which they developed the skill to excel. Laramar knew that he could make barma better than anyone. He considered it his craft, the one thing he could do well, but he felt that few gave him the credit he thought he deserved.
Many foods fermented naturally, some on the vine or tree on which they grew; even animals who ate them were sometimes affected. And many people made fermented beverages, as least occasionally, but they were inconsistent and their product often turned sour. Marthona was often cited for making an excellent wine, but it was considered by many a minor thing, and. of course, it wasn’t her only skill.
Laramar could always be counted on to make a fermented brew that became alcoholic, not vinegary, and his was often very good. He knew that it wasn’t a minor thing, it took skill and knowledge to do it well, but most people cared only about his end product. It didn’t help that he was known to drink a lot of it himself and was often too “sick” in the mornings to go hunting or to participate in some cooperative, sometimes unpleasant, but usually necessary activity that needed to be done for the Cave.
Shortly after he poured the barma for the guests of honor, a woman appeared at Laramar’s side. A toddler was hanging on her leg that she seemed to be ignoring. She had a cup in her hand which she held toward Laramar. A flicker of displeasure danced across his features for a moment, but he held his expression carefully neutral as he poured her some barma.
“Aren’t you going to introduce her to your mate?” she said, obviously directing her question to Laramar, but looking at Ayla.
“Ayla, this is my mate, Tremeda, and the one hanging on her is her youngest boy,” Laramar said,