The Shelters of Stone (Earth's Children 5)

As Ayla and Wolf made their way toward Marthona’s dwelling, something about Proleva was nagging at the back of her mind. It was the way she held herself, the way she moved, the way her loose tunic fit. Suddenly it came to her, and she smiled. Proleva was pregnant! She was sure of it.

When Ayla went into Marthona’s dwelling, no one was there. It made her wish she had stayed and had tea with Proleva, though she wondered where Jondalar’s mother was. She wasn’t with Proleva, maybe she went to see Zelandoni, Ayla thought. They seemed close, or at least respected each other. They were always talking or giving each other knowing looks. If she went to look for Marthona there, it would give her a reason to call upon the donier, whom she definitely wanted to know better.

Of course, I really don’t have to find Marthona, and Zelandoni is very busy right now. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother her, Ayla thought, but she had been feeling at loose ends and wanted something meaningful to do. Maybe I could help. At least I could offer.

Ayla went to the dwelling of Zelandoni and tapped lightly on the panel near the entrance drape. The woman must have been standing nearby. She pushed aside the drape within a heartbeat or two.

“Ayla,” she said, looking rather surprised to see the young woman and the wolf. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was looking for Marthona. She isn’t at home and she wasn’t with Proleva. I wondered if she might have come here,” Ayla said.

“No, she’s not here.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I know how busy you are. I shouldn’t have taken up your time,” Ayla said.

“It’s perfectly all right,” the donier said, then she noted that the young woman seemed tense, but eager, and somehow hopeful. “Did you want Marthona for anything special?”

“No, I was just looking for her. I thought she might need help with something.”

“If you are looking for something to do, perhaps you can help me,” Zelandoni said, holding the drape open while she stepped back. Ayla’s big, pleased smile made the older woman realize that was the real reason she had come.

“Is it all right for Wolf to come in?” Ayla said. “He won’t disturb anything.”

“I know he won’t. I told you we understood each other,” the donier said, holding back the drape to allow the animal in after Ayla. “The red ochre you collected for me needs to be ground into powder. There’s the mortar,” Zelandoni said, showing her a red-stained stone with a saucerlike depression formed by years of use, “and here’s the rock for grinding. Jonokol will be here soon and will need it to assist me in making a post with Shevonar’s abelan. He is my acolyte.”

“I met a man named Jonokol at the welcoming feast, but he said he was an artist,” Ayla said.

“Jonokol is an artist. He is also my acolyte. I think he is more artist than acolyte, though. He has no interest in healing, or even finding his way to the spirit world. He seems content to remain an acolyte, but he is young yet. Time will tell. He may yet feel the call. In the meantime, he is a fine artist, and he makes an excellent assistant,” Zelandoni said, then added, “Most artists are also zelandonia. Jonokol has been since he was very young, when he first showed talent.”

Ayla was glad to grind the red iron oxide into powder, it was a way to be of help without special training, but the repetitious physical activity left her mind free to think. She wondered about the zelandonia, and why artists, like Jonokol, would be brought into the group when they were so young; they couldn’t possibly know anything about what it was or meant. Why would artists need to be part of the zelandonia?

While she was working, Jonokol came in. He looked at Ayla, and then the wolf with some surprise. Wolf lifted his head up, then glanced at Ayla, tensing to rise if she signaled. She motioned a sign that meant the man was welcome. The wolf relaxed, but continued to be watchful.

“Ayla came over to help, Jonokol,” Zelandoni said. “I understand you have met.”

“Yes, the first night she was here. Greetings, Ayla,” Jonokol said.

Ayla finished grinding the red lumps into fine powder and gave the mortar, grinding stone, and the red powder to Zelandoni, hoping the woman would give her something else to do, but it soon became evident that they were both waiting for her to go. “Is there anything else you would like me to do?” she finally asked.

“Not right now,” the donier said.

Ayla nodded, then signaled to Wolf and left. Marthona was still gone when she returned to the dwelling, and with Jondalar away, she didn’t know what to do. I should have stayed and had tea with Proleva, she thought. Then she decided, Why not go back? Ayla wanted to get to know the accomplished and admired woman. After all, they were going to be related; she was the mate of Jondalar’s brother. Maybe I could even bring a nice tea, Ayla thought, something with dried linden flowers to add a nice fragrance and a little sweetening. I wish I knew if a linden tree grew nearby.

15

The men were nearly finished digging the grave pit, and glad of it. The Zelandonia had invoked strong protection for them before they left to make the ground ready to receive the body of Shevonar, including pouring red powdered ochre over their hands, but each of them still had trembled privately when they crossed the invisible barrier marked by the carved and red-painted posts.

The four diggers wore large leather hides with no shaping and totally devoid of decoration, sort of a blanket with a hole through the middle for their heads. A face-covering hood went over their heads with holes cut out for their eyes but not their mouths or noseholes—bodily openings that invited the entry of a spirit.

The covering was intended to hide their identity from any spirits that might be lurking nearby looking for a living body to inhabit; there could be no abelans, no symbols or designs of any kind to announce who was encroaching upon the sacred ground and disturbing the spirits. They did not speak, for even the sound of their voices could give them away. Digging a grave trench was not a job that was easy to delegate, and Joharran had decided that since he was the one who was responsible for organizing the ill-fated hunt,

he ought to be one of the diggers. He had chosen his two aides, Solaban and Rushemar, and his brother Jondalar, to assist him. Though the four men knew each other well, they sincerely hoped it was not apparent to any lingering elans.

It was hard work chopping up the hard ground with the stone mattocks. The sun was high overhead, and they were sweaty and hot. It was difficult to breathe inside the leather hoods, but not one of the strong, fearless hunters even considered removing them. Any one of them could face up to a charging rhinoceros and dodge aside at the last moment, but it took far more courage to brave the unseen dangers of the hallowed burial ground.

None of them wanted to stay in the enclosure haunted by spirits any longer than necessary, and they worked as fast as they could, scooping out the dirt loosened by the mattocks. The shovels they used were made of the large flat bones, scapulas or pelvises, of the bigger animals with one side tapered, then smoothed with a round stone and river sand to a fairly sharp edge to make shoveling easier. The opposite end was attached to a long branch. The dirt was placed on leather hides similar to the ones they wore, so it could be pulled away from the edge of the pit to make room for the many people who would be crowding close.

Joharran nodded to the others when the last few shovelfuls of loose earth were pitched out of the hole. It was deep enough. They gathered up the tools and quickly left. Still not speaking, they walked far away from the living areas to a place that had been selected earlier, one seldom frequented by people.