The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [248]
“You can watch me, if you want,” Jondalar said. “In fact, I was hoping you’d show me the technique you use.”
“I am not an expert. I can make the tools I need, but Droog’s are much better than mine.”
“Your tools are perfectly serviceable. It’s the technique I’d like to see.”
Ayla nodded and went into the cave. Jondalar waited, and when she didn’t come out immediately, he wondered if she had meant now or later. He started in after her just as she was coming out, then jumped back so fast that he almost tripped. He didn’t want to offend her with an inadvertent touch.
Ayla took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Maybe he couldn’t stand to be near her, but she was not going to let him know how much it hurt. He’d be gone soon enough. She started down the path carrying both ptarmigan, the basket with the eggs, and a large bundle wrapped in a hide and tied with a cord.
“Let me help you carry something,” Jondalar said, hurrying after her. She paused long enough to give him the basket of eggs.
“The ptarmigan should be started first,” she said, putting the bundle down on the beach. It was just a statement, but Jondalar had the impression she was waiting for his consent, or at least acknowledgment. He was not far off. Despite her years of independence, the ways of the Clan still governed many of her actions. She was not accustomed to doing something else when a man had commanded, or requested, her to do something for him.
“Of course, go ahead. I need to get my implements before I can work the flint,” he said.
She carried the plump birds around the wall to the hole she had dug earlier and lined with rocks. The fire was out in the bottom of the pit, but the stones sizzled when she sprinkled drops of water on them. She had searched up and down the valley for the right combination of greens and herbs, and had brought them to the stone oven. She collected coltsfoot for its slightly salty taste; nettles, pigweed, and sprightly wood sorrel for greens; wild onions, garlicky-tasting ramsons, basil, and sage were for flavor. Smoke would add its touch of flavor as well, and wood ashes a taste of salt.
She stuffed the birds with their own eggs nested in the greens—three eggs in one bird and four in the other. She had always wrapped grape leaves around the ptarmigan before they were lowered into the pit, but grapes did not grow in the valley. She remembered fish was sometimes cooked wrapped in fresh hay, and decided that would work for fowl. After the birds were resting in the bottom of the pit, she piled more grass on top, then rocks, and covered it all with dirt.
Jondalar had an array of antler, bone, and stone flint-knapping implements spread out, some of which Ayla recognized. Some, though, were totally unfamiliar. She opened her bundle and arranged her implements within easy reach, then sat down and spread the leather over her lap. It was good protection; flint could shatter into very sharp slivers. She glanced at Jondalar. He was looking over the pieces of bone and stone she had set out with great interest.
He moved several nodules of flint closer to her. She noticed two within easy reach—and thought of Droog. A good toolmaker’s ability began with selection, she recalled. She wanted stone with a fine grain, looked them over, then chose the smaller one. Jondalar was nodding his head in unconscious approval.
She thought of the youngster who had shown an inclination for toolmaking before he was hardly toddling. “Did you always know you would work the stone?” she asked.
“For a while I thought I might be a carver, perhaps even serve the Mother, or work with Those Who Served Her.” A touch of pain and poignant yearning crossed his features. “Then I was sent to live with Dalanar and learned to be a stone knapper instead. It was a good choice—I enjoy it and have some skill. I would never have been a great carver.”
“What is a ‘carver,’ Jondalar?”
“That’s it! That’s what is missing!” Ayla jumped with startled consternation. “There are no carvings, no paintings, no beads, no decorations at all. Not