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The ones that counted were the ones that cared. His people believed that the Mother had first created a spirit world, and the spirits of all things in it were perfect. The spirits then produced living copies of themselves, to populate the ordinary world.
—Jean M. Auel, The Mammoth Hunters
Ones Who Count and Ones Who Care
It wasn’t the first time that Durc wished Ura was here. He hadn’t seen her for more than a year. More than one, less than two; he thought it was perhaps a year and four moon cycles, and Danug thought much the same. It was good, Durc reflected, to have someone else with him who could understand numbers. Mog-Ur could, of course, but then he was Mog-Ur. (Brac had once confidently told him that the current Mog-Ur was not as powerful as the old Mog-Ur, who had been killed in the cave-in when Durc had been only in his walking year. Durc barely remembered him—a shambling figure who had walked with a shuffling gait and a voice that could be sometimes frightening and other times gentle. Brac remembered him better, but then Brac remembered most things better.)
“What if they veered away from the water?” he asked again.
Danug shook his head. “When Jondalar and your mother stayed with us, he told us that he and his brother had journeyed the length of the Great Mother River. His people live by its source. As long as we follow the river, we’ll find them.
“It feels as though we’ve been following it forever,” Durc said, exhaling and noting how his breath misted in the early morning air. Winter was coming again. “I wonder if there are wolverines nearby,” he mused.
Danug shrugged. “We should be able to handle one if there are,” he said. “And they don’t hunt in packs. I’d be more worried if they did.”
“No,” Durc said. “I know that.” As usual, his hands were moving as he spoke, his gestures complementing and expanding on his words. “I was only thinking that it would be useful to have a pelt for a hood is all.”
Danug nodded. His own fingers were clumsier, as he haltingly suggested that they try to catch some fish for breakfast. It had been years since he’d learned some of the rudimentary signs that formed the bulk of the language of the Clan—nowadays, only the elders of the Lion Camp called them ‘Flatheads’. It had been Ayla who’d taught them to him—and to others in the camp who'd wanted to learn them, but he’d fallen out of practice after Rydag’s death. Still, there were advantages to being able to communicate in silence, particularly when one was hunting. While he wasn’t certain that fish could hear their conversation, Danug wouldn’t turn up his nose at rabbit or deer, if either should cross their path. It had been over a year since their stores of dried mammoth meat had run out, but it was too dangerous for two hunters to try to kill one of those beasts on their own, they would never be able to carry all of that meat, and wasting Mut’s bounty would be an offense too great to ever consider.
Durc’s eyes crinkled at the corners as they so often did, and he laughed silently.
“I said the wrong thing again, didn’t I?” Danug remarked ruefully.
“It’s just that the Clan has one sign for sturgeon, another for carp, another still for salmon. What we don’t have is a word for fish. You just asked if we should try to catch…” He frowned. “Well, I don’t know your word for it, but,” he bent down and picked up a rock that was slightly smaller than the distance from his thumbnail to the first joint, “the largest one I ever saw was about half this length. We’d need to do a lot of fishing to have enough of them for breakfast!”
Danug’s laugh was far from silent.
“Is this the place you suggested?” Jondalar asked. He thought it was, but he couldn’t be certain.
The blonde woman at his side nodded. “There are the caves there,” she said, pointing up the gently rolling slopes. Sure-footed aurochs had beaten a narrow pathway up the inclines and tall white datura flowers grew alongside comfrey and linden. “The water is clean, and there are fish to catch and aurochs to hunt. We will do well here.”
She glanced over to where their young daughter Jonayla—Jona—was romping. She was eager to explore, though she kept casting frequent glances over her shoulder, as though to assure herself that she would not be lost. For a moment, but only a moment, a cold chill passed over Ayla, as Jona knelt by the riverbank and began piling up small pebbles. She had a hazy memory of doing the same thing once, a long time ago, and then the pebbles falling and a sudden wrenching loneliness and…
“Ayla?” Jondalar wrapped an arm around her and she sank into his warmth and strength. “What’s the matter?”
Ayla shook her head. “I… I almost remembered something,” she said. “Something terrible.” Her eyes opened wide. “I know that I lost my people in an earthquake; Iza told me as much when she would tell me how she found me, wandering, alone, starving, injured, and dehydrated. Much later, she told me that they had found traces of a camp of the Others close by, and that the signs showed it had been swallowed up by the earth. She thought those must have been my people. Seeing Jona now, so close to the age I must have been… there was something about… piling pebbles,” she frowned. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember anymore now.”
Jondalar’s arm tightened about her shoulders. “Perhaps you will in time. Perhaps not. Either way, it doesn’t matter.” He frowned. “Unless you think it means we shouldn’t set up our settlement here, after all."
Ayla blinked. “Because I remembered something from a stack of pebbles? No, Jondalar,” she said gently. “It's already been settled. We are far enough away from the hunting and fishing grounds of the other Caves, but close enough that we can visit them if we wish to. There are herbs for eating and herbs for healing. If those whom we met on our journeys should come to trade with the Zelandonii, our settlement will be the first to greet them, and you and I will know their ways better than most.” She gestured to where a tall man nearly a decade Jondalar’s senior stood, his head bent in conversation with two women. All three were smiling. “Now that he's seen it for himself, if Kimerlan agrees that this place is suitable, then here shall be the Thirtieth Cave of the Zelandonii. And here we will live and I shall be our Zelandoni.”
Night was falling and Danug got the fire started while Durc cleaned and dressed the fish. “You’re better at that now than I am,” Danug admitted with an easy smile. “Remember when you first came to the Mamutoi?”
Durc nodded. “I’ve been told before that I’m much like my mother was. In the Clan—”
“—Men have no memories for women’s skills and women have no memories for men’s,” Danug finished. “So you keep mentioning. And so I keep saying, it seems a hard way to live. Just think of Ura traveling with us now, when her time was so close when we left. And if we’d had to carry an infant along with us,” he shook his head soberly. “Do you remember when we caught that chamois? We never could have managed it if a baby had begun to cry close by. And I wouldn’t have given much for our chances at evading that lynx if we hadn’t been able to stay silent that other time.”
Durc nodded soberly. They’d used a herb compound that Danug’s people knew well to disguise their scent, but that wouldn’t have helped if they’d been heard. His serious expression quickly yielded to a dreamy smile. “Do you think Ura’s child is a boy or a girl?” he asked.
Danug shrugged. “Who can know what sex Mut might choose to bequeath?” he asked. “All children are gifts of the Mother.”
“Oh, I know,” Durc said. “Even if it took me a winter and spring with your people to truly understand it. I was just wondering.”
“Well, when we get back, your curiosity will be satisfied,” Danug said decisively.
“In the Clan, Mog-Ur names the child and tells their totem. But now, there is no Mog-Ur to ask, only Mamut. And Ura told me that she would prefer I dream with Mog-Ur to see what name the Spirits choose for our child. If, when we return to the Mamutoi, I find that the child of my mate was born a girl, I hope that the Spirits will call her Ayla.”
Danug nodded, unsurprised. “And if it’s a boy?”
Durc frowned. “That's harder. Brun took charge of me when my mother was death-cursed and the old Mog-Ur died. Brac was my best friend, even if I often think it was only because he knew Broud hated me and he wanted to annoy him.” He smiled a bit at that. In his time with the Mamutoi, he’d found that many young people fought with their parents when they were on the cusp of adulthood and the adults often viewed it with wry acceptance. While such antics weren’t completely foreign to the Clan, rebellion more often took the form of the children insisting on taking on more adult tasks and resisting being sheltered and babied. Openly flouting authority was far less common and Broud had been infuriated that it was the son of his own mate who had seemed ever ready to challenge him. “Then again,” Durc continued pensively, “my mother did save Brac’s life when he was barely more than an infant. But those are Clan names and I know of no Clan that would accept Ura and me, looking as we do. Any child of our spirits would likely look the same.”
A shadow fell across his face, as the thought of the son that Ura had born after their second year together sprang to his mind. The baby had been tiny, with his eyes and Ura’s chin. Broud had refused to accept him. Over his and Ura’s protests, he had told them sharply that there would be no deformed children in his clan and ordered Ura to do ‘what any good woman of the Clan knew her duty to be’. It had been three more years before Ura’s totem lost its battle and she became with child once more. This time, his mother’s sibling, Uba had warned them to leave.
“There is a place,” she said. “A cave where your mother hid when you were born, but that won’t be far enough. You must find your mother’s people.”
“But you are my mother’s people,” Durc had protested.
“Iza took your mother in when she was a child, but she was born to the Others. With her dying breath, Iza told her to find the Others and when she was death-cursed, I am certain that if her spirit lingered behind, as it did that first time, then she would have gone to find them. We know so little about the Others. Maybe they have Mog-Urs more powerful than ours. Perhaps they can even bring back one who has died. But even if they can’t, you must find them. Your mother always said that you were not deformed. That you were part Others and part Clan, and that made you look like a mix of both. I didn’t know if I believed it then, but I do think it now.” She shook her head. “But Broud will never accept that. And Brun is old. When he dies, Broud will find a way to hurt you. You must go now, before Ura can no longer travel.”
Durc had obeyed. He and Ura left the next day, and they hadn’t returned, not even when Ura miscarried two moon cycles later. They had continued onward until they found the Mamutoi—and news of his mother. While their physical appearance had been noted upon—and not especially favorably—Durc and Ura had been permitted to shelter with them that winter and, over time, as their strangeness wore off, as they’d learned the spoken language of their new companions, they’d become more accepted. With the coming of the spring, Ura had found herself expecting a child once more, and Mamut had counseled that she remain with them until the child was born.
“Your journey will be a long one and a rigorous one and your mate has already lost one child on the way. Better she stay here and, when her time comes, there will be others to assist with the birthing. Go. Find your mother and we shall care for your mate. By the time you return, with Mut’s help, it will be to find your mate and your child both strong and healthy.”
“With no Mog-Ur, who will name Ura’s child?” Durc asked. “Is that your duty, here?”
The young shaman shook his head. “It is," he said slowly, "but you are not Mamutoi. And though I know much of the Clan, it was my predecessor who lived with them. I do not know Clan ways enough to name a Clan child, and while I might try, I think it best that on your return, we importune the spirits together to find your child's true name. Unless you wish it to have a Mamutoi name when it will not be Mamutoi.”
Durc turned to his mate. "I don't know," he signed, speaking as well to be certain that Mamut understood. "A Mamutoi name might be better than no name at all. And you will need to wait long for my return."
Ura’s eyes widened. “I am not Mamutoi,” she stammered, her hand signs agitated. “I will wait.”
“It will be a long time,” Durc cautioned. “I may not return until the child’s walking year, if at all.”
“I will wait,” Ura repeated. “I will wait.”
“If you leave it too long, our child may be unlucky.”
Ura shook her head. “Can you truly think that he will be any luckier with a name?” she asked with bitter humor. “If you do not return, then of course, in time, I must do as I must, but for now, I will wait. And if I give birth to a living child, a child that I will not have to carry away from the hearth, then that child will already be luckier than our other two.”
Durc lowered his eyes in acquiescence, realizing that he had no good argument that he could raise in response.
“Might I go, too?” Danug asked. “It’s hardly safe for one man to go alone and I’ve never seen the other end of the river. Besides, it may chance that Mut might smile upon me and I’ll find a mate among the Zelandoni…
Durc realized that Danug was speaking again and he blinked. “Forgive me,” he said. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Perhaps in that case…” Danug said, trying to sign even as words spilled from his lips, “When your mother stayed with us, I had a brother. Not born of my mother, but raised alongside me. He… he was like you and Ura.”
Durc’s eyes widened. “What happened to him?”
“He had a weak heart,” Danug said softly. “He died at the summer meeting that year. The Mammoth Hearth refused him a proper Mamutoi burial, but Ayla gave him Clan rites. His name was Rydag. I’d thought to name my own son after him one day, but I suspect that those who remember my brother will attempt to dissuade me, and if they cannot, they may make his life harder than it ought to be. I think it might be fitting for a child born of mixed spirits to carry the name of another child born of mixed spirits.”
Durc stared into the fire pensively. “I will dream with Mamut when we return to the Mamutoi,” he said. “Rydag. The name is not Clan, but the sounds in it are sounds that Clan can say. It has a good sound to it.”
Danug nodded. There was no way to be sure if the Spirits would agree, but it seemed to him that often, they could see into a man's or woman's heart and mind if there was a hope already there, and if there was, they were often gracious enough to grant it.
Ayla was awake at first light. Beside her, Jondalar stirred and reached for her. She stroked his arm and cheek lovingly. “There should be elecampane not far from here. We passed it on our journey to the Zelandonii.”
“Your memory never ceases to impress me,” Jondalar said sleepily. “You’re going alone?”
Ayla considered. “I’d thought to bring Jona with me,” she said. “I’d like to teach her more about the plants we use.”
He knew better than to insist she take others with her. Ayla had lived alone for more than three years and there was little she didn’t know of the dangers that surrounded them. She would be safe and she would keep their daughter safe, too. All the same, he said, “Be careful," as she reached over to kiss him.
“I heard something,” Durc said with a worried frown, as he reached for his spear. “We’re not alone.”
At once, Danug’s smile fell away and he reached for his own spear. “Are we to be the diners or the dinner, I wonder,” he asked tersely.
Durc motioned him to silence, just as a squeal of delight carried clearly to the young men. “People,” he said, signing now instead of speaking. “But are they friends or enemies?”
Danug shrugged. “We cannot know standing here. We must meet them,” he signed carefully, the stiffness of his hand-signs bearing eloquent testimony to his lack of fluency in Clan language.
Durc nodded his agreement, and the two men advanced slowly, relying on the tall grasses for cover.
Ayla had gathered her plants—she’d found burdock as well as the elecampane—and rested by the river bank, as she watched Jona play. Her daughter didn’t share her interest in plants now, though Ayla hoped that would change as her daughter got a bit older. These days, she seemed more entranced by the bone carvers and had made several rudimentary attempts at the skill. Now, she scratched in the damp sand by the river bank, making pictures with a pointed stick.
All at once, the hair on the back of Ayla’s neck prickled. They weren’t alone. Jondalar? Not Jondalar, nor any of the other Zelandonii who had come to make the Thirtieth Cave. The sound was coming from in front of them, not behind. “Jona,” she called softly, as she reached for her spear-thrower. “Come here.”
Jonayla looked up in disappointment, but something about her mother’s expression checked her, and her protest died before it could pass her lips, as she picked her way to her mother’s side. Ayla placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, readied her spear-thrower, and waited.
Both men relaxed slightly when they saw the people they’d happened on. A woman could be a formidable fighter, but she’d hardly have a small child with her if her intentions were hostile. They lowered their spears slowly and were rewarded when she did the same with her—
“Is that a spear-thrower?” Danug asked Durc. The Mamutoi used them, but Durc had never mastered the use and at shorter range, a spear was still preferred. “I thought ours were the only people to know of them.”
“You’d best do the talking,” Durc signed, as the woman carefully approached.
Danug took a step forward. “We greet you in the name of Mut, the Great Mother,” he said a bit nervously.
The woman blinked. And then, she pushed back her hood and two braids of long yellow hair fell forward. “Danug?” she asked in disbelief.
An astonished smile curved Danug’s lips. “Ayla!”
Ayla’s laugh rang out a moment later. “You’ve come so far! We didn’t think we’d ever see you again!” She nudged the little girl forward. “This is my daughter, Jonayla. Jona.” She looked at Durc. “I don’t believe we’ve…” Her voice trailed off, as she took in his features: the bulging forehead, the heavy brow ridges, the nose that seemed too small for his face and the eyes too large.
A strangled whisper emerged from Durc’s throat. “Ma-ma?”
That was as much as he could say before Ayla’s arms wrapped tightly about him with an incredulous cry that was half laugh and half sob.
“DURC!”
He hugged her back fiercely. “Ma-ma.” His voice still hoarse with emotion, he whispered, “You used to tell me I was named for the legend. That Durc went east and nobody ever learned if he succeeded in his quest to find the Land of the Sun. But I had no interest in the Land of the Sun. I have come west to find you, and, Ma-ma, my quest is over at last!”