The Shelters of Stone (Earth's Children 5)

Ayla didn’t know it, but she had presented quite a problem. As a foreigner, her status in the Cave should have been last. If she and Jondalar had been officially Promised in a recognized ceremony, it would have been easier to place her among Jondalar’s high-ranking family, but their upcoming mating was only understood, and her acceptance into the Cave was not even formally sanctioned yet. When it came up, Jondalar made it clear that wherever Ayla was placed, he would stay with her. If she w

as placed last in line, then he would stand last in line.

A man’s Stanis originally came from his mother, until he mated. Then, it might change. Normally, before a mating was officially authorized, the families, and sometimes the leaders and the zelandonia, engaged in Matrimonial negotiations, which involved many aspects. For example, gift exchanges were agreed upon; whether the couple would Uve with his Cave, her Cave, or some other Cave; and the setting of a bride price since her status was considered the most valuable. One of the important aspects of the negotiations was the status of the new couple.

Marthona was convinced that if Jondalar stood at the end of the line, it could be misunderstood, not only by the Zelandonii, but by the spirits of the next world, to mean that he had lost status for some reason, or that Ayla’s position was so low, his status could not be negotiated any higher. That was why Zelandoni insisted that she walk to the feast with the zelandonia. Even as a foreigner, if she was recognized as one of the metaphysical elite, it gave her prestige, ambiguous though it was. And though the zelandonia did not eat at a burial feast, she could be shifted into the line with Jondalar’s family before anyone could object.

Though some people might realize that a subterfuge had been perpetrated, once it was done, her place was proclaimed to both this world and the next, and it would be a little late to change it. Ayla herself was completely unaware of the small deception exercised on behalf of Jondalar and her, and in fact, those who engaged in it felt it was an insignificant transgression. Both Marthona and Zelandoni, for different reasons, were convinced that Ayla was genuinely a person of high status. It was just a matter of making it known.

While the family was eating, Laramar came around and poured some barma into their cups. Ayla remembered him from the first night. She had come to understand that while the beverage he made might be appreciated, the man himself was often disparaged, and she wondered why. Ayla watched him as he poured liquid from a waterbag into Willamar’s cup. She noticed that his clothing was decidedly dirty and frayed, worn through where it could have been patched.

“Can I pour some for you?” he said to her. She allowed him to fill her cup and, without staring directly, observed him more closely. He was an ordinary-looking man with light brown hair and beard, and blue eyes, not tall or short, and not fat or thin, though he did have a potbelly and generally a musculature that seemed softer, not as defined as that of most men. Then she saw that his neck was gray with grime, and she was sure that he seldom washed his hands.

It was easy enough to get dirty, particularly in winter when water often had to be melted from ice or snow, and using fuel for water to wash with was not always wise. But in summer, when water was available and soaproot plentiful, most people she knew preferred to be reasonably clean. It was unusual to see anyone quite so filthy.

“Thank you, Laramar,” she said, smiled, and took a sip, though seeing the one who produced the brew made it less appetizing.

He smiled back. She had the feeling he didn’t smile often and the distinct impression that this smile was insincere. She also noticed that his teeth were crooked. That wasn’t his fault, she knew. Many people had crooked teeth, but it did add to his generally disagreeable appearance.

“I was looking forward to your company,” Laramar said.

Ayla was puzzled. “Why were you expecting my company?”

“At a burial feast, strangers are always at the end of the line, after everyone who belongs to a Cave. But I noticed you were at the front,” he said.

Marthona was annoyed for a moment, and Ayla caught the fleeting look on her face. “Yes, she probably should have been at the back near you, Laramar,” the woman said, “but you know, Ayla will soon belong to the Ninth Cave.”

“But she’s not Zelandonii, yet,” the man said. “She is foreign.”

“She is Promised to Jondalar, and her status among her own people was quite high.”

“Didn’t she say she was raised by flatheads? I didn’t know the status of flatheads counted for more than a Zelandonii,” he said.

“To the Mamutoi she was a healer and a daughter of their Mamut, their Zelandoni,” Marthona said. The former leader was becoming irritated. She did not like having to make explanations to the lowest-ranked man of the Cave … especially when he was right.

“She didn’t do much to heal Shevonar, did she?” Laramar said.

“No one could have done more for him than Ayla did, not even the First,” Joharran said, coming to her defense. “And she did help relieve his pain so he could hold on until his mate arrived.”

Ayla noticed that Laramar’s smile had become malicious. He was taking great pleasure in upsetting Jondalar’s family and putting them on the defensive, and it had something to do with her. She wished she understood what it was about, and planned to ask Jondalar when they were alone, but she was beginning to understand why people spoke of Laramar with such reproach.

The zelandonia were beginning to gather around the burial shelter again, and people were taking their plates to a far corner of the Gather Field and scraping the remains onto a pile of leftovers. The midden would be left, and once the people were gone, the discarded meat and bones would be taken by various scavengers, while the vegetal matter would decay back into the ground. It was a common method of disposal. Laramar walked with Jondalar’s family to the refuse heap, Ayla was sure it was to cause them a little more chagrin, then went his own way with a distinct swagger.

After people had gathered around the burial shelter again, the One Who Was First picked up the tightly woven basket of red ochre that Ayla had powdered. “There are Five Sacred Colors. All other colors are aspects of those primary colors. The first color is red,” the large donier began. “It is the color of blood, the color of life. Some flowers and fruits show the true color of red, but they are ephemeral.

“Red seldom stays true for long. As blood dries it darkens, becomes brown. Brown is an aspect of red, sometimes called old red. The red ochres of the land are the dried blood of the Great Mother Earth, and though some can be almost as bright as new red, they are all old red.

“Covered with the red of blood from your mother’s womb, you came into this world, Shevonar. Covered with the red earth of the Great Mother’s womb, you shall return to her to be born again into the next world as you were born into this one,” the First said as she sprinkled the body of Shevonar liberally from head to toe with the powdered red iron ore.

“The fifth primary color is dark, sometimes called black,” Zelandoni said, making Ayla wonder what the second, third, and fourth Sacred Colors were. “Dark is the color of night, the color in deep caves, the color of charcoal, after fire has burned the life out of wood. Some say charcoal black is really the darkest shade of old red. It is the color that overcomes the color of life as it ages. Just as life becomes death, red becomes black, dark. Dark is the absence of life; it is the color of death. It does not even have an ephemeral life; there are no black flowers. Deep caves show the color in its true form.

“Shevonar, the body your elan inhabited has died and will go into the black under the ground, will return to the dark earth of the Mother, but your elan, your spirit, will go to the world of the spirits, will return to the Mother, the Original Source of Life. Take with you the spirit of this food we have given you to sustain you on your Journey to the spirit world.” The large, impressive woman picked up the dish of food that had been left for him, held it up to show, then put it down beside him and sprinkled it with red ochre powder.

“Take with you your favorite spear to hunt the spirit animals for sustenance.” The donier put his spear beside him and sprinkled it with red ochre. “Take with you your tools to make new spears for the hunters of the next world.” She put his spear-shaft straightener under his hand, stiffened with rigor mortis, and sprinkled it Math the red powder. “Do not forget the skills you learned in this world, make use of them in the next world. Do not grieve for your life here. Spirit of Shevonar, go freely, go confidently. Do not look back. Do not linger. Your next life awaits you.”

The grave goods were arranged around him, the food in its containers was placed on his stomach, then the grass-mat shroud was wrapped around him and the cords that were threaded through the ends at head and foot were pulled tight, making it look like a cocoon. The long cords were then wrapped around him, which kept everything together and gave the body and its accoutrements a lumpy definition. The netting was pulled up and attached to either end of a pole, which had recently been a small, straight tree. The bark still on the tree helped to keep the hammock with its macabre bundle from sliding.

Then the same men who had dug a pit in the sacred burial ground lifted the body of Shevonar and carried it between them. Joharran was at the front with the pole resting on his left shoulder, and Rushemar slightly behind him and on the other side rested it on his right. Solaban was at the rear on the same side as Joharran, but the pole rested on padding on his shoulder, since he was not as tall as Jondalar, who followed him.