The shelters of stone - Jean M. Auel [94]
“You’d have to go in and find a lamp or a torch in the dark, wouldn’t you?” Jondalar said.
“We can borrow a lamp,” Marthona said.
“I think I can make enough spark lights to find the fireplace,” Ayla said, taking out her flint knife and feeling in her pouch for the firestones she had found.
She entered the dwelling first, holding the nodule of iron pyrite in front of her in her left hand and her knife in the right. For a moment she felt as though she were entering a deep cave. The darkness was so intense, it seemed to push back at her. A quick chill shook her. She struck the firestone with the back of her flint blade.
“Ooohhh,” Ayla heard Marthona say as a bright spark lit up the charcoal black interior for an instant and then died.
“How did you do that?” Willamar asked. “Can you do it again?”
“I did it with my flint knife and a firestone,” Ayla said, and struck the two together to show that she could, indeed, do it again. The long-lived spark allowed her to take a few steps toward the fireplace. She struck it again and moved a little closer to it. When she reached the cooking hearth, she saw that Marthona had found her way there, too.
“I keep my tinder here, on this side,” Marthona said. “Where do you want it?”
“Near the edge here is fine,” Ayla said. She felt Marthona’s hand in the dark, and the soft, dry bits of some kind of fibrous substance it held. Ayla put the tinder on the ground, bent over close, and struck the firestone again. This time the spark jumped to the small pile of quick-burning material and made a faint red glow. Ayla blew at it gently and was rewarded with a little flame. She piled a bit more tinder on it. Marthona was ready with some small bits of wood, and then bigger kindling, and in what seemed hardly more than a heartbeat, a warm fire lit the inside of the dwelling.
“Now, I want to see this firestone,” Willamar said after lighting a few lamps.
Ayla gave him the small nodule of iron pyrite. Willamar studied the grayish-gold stone, turning it over to see all sides. “It just looks like a stone, with an interesting color. How do you make fire with it?” he asked. “Can anyone do it?”
“Yes, anyone can,” Jondalar said. “I’ll show you. Can I have some of that tinder, mother?”
While Marthona got more tinder, Jondalar went to his traveling pack for his fire-making kit and removed the flint striker and firestone. Then he made a small pile of the soft fibers—probably cattail or fireweed fibers mixed with a bit of pitch and crumbled dry rotted wood from a dead tree, he thought. It was the tinder his mother had always preferred. Bending close to the quick-catching tinder, Jondalar struck the flint and iron pyrite together. The spark, not as easy to see next to the burning fire, still landed on the pile of starting material, singed it brown, and sent up a whiff of smoke. Jondalar blew up a small flame and added more fuel. Soon a second fire was burning in the ash-darkened circle surrounded by stones that was the hearth of the dwelling.
“Can I try it?” Marthona said.
“It does take a little practice to draw off a spark and make it land where you want, but it’s not hard to do,” Jondalar said, giving her the stone and the striker:
“I’d like to try, too, when you’re done,” Willamar said.
“You don’t have to wait,” Ayla said. “I’ll get the flint striker from my fire-starting kit and show you. I’ve been using the back of my knife, but I’ve already chipped it and I’d rather not break the blade.”
Their first attempts were tentative and awkward, but with Ayla and Jondalar showing them the technique, both Marthona and Willamar began to get a feel for it. Willamar was the first to get a fire going, but then had trouble doing it a second time. Once Marthona made a fire, she had mastered the technique, but with practice and advice from the two experts, mixed with much laughter, it wasn’t long before both of them were drawing sparks from the stone and making fires with ease.
Folara came home to find all four of them smiling with delight on their knees around the hearth,