With the next blank, he dulled both edges so the tool could be handled easily. Then, with two carefully placed blows at one end of it, he detached a couple of spalls, leaving a sharp, chisellike point. To demonstrate its use, he cut a groove into a piece of bone, then went over the groove many times, making it deeper and deeper and creating a little pile of curled shavings. He explained how a shaft, or a point, or a handle, could be cut out with roughly the desired shape, then finished by scraping or smoothing.
Jondalar’s demonstration was almost a revelation. None of the boys or younger men had ever seen an expert flint-knapping toolmaker work, and few of the older men had ever seen one so skilled. In the few moments of twilight the night before, he had managed to cleave off nearly thirty usable blanks from the single nodule of flint before the flint core was too small to work. By the next day, most of the men had used one or more of the tools he made from them.
Then he tried to explain the hunting weapon he wanted to show them. Some of the men seemed to understand him immediately
although they invariably questioned the accuracy and speed he claimed for a spear thrown with a spear-thrower. Others couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of it at all, but it didn’t matter.
Having good serviceable tools in their hands, and working on something constructive with them, gave the men a sense of purpose. And doing anything that opposed Attaroa, and the conditions she had forced upon them, lifted the despair of the Men’s Camp and fostered the hope that it might be possible, someday, to regain control of their own destiny.
Epadoa and her guards sensed a change in attitude over the next few days, and she felt sure something was going on. The men seemed to walk with a lighter step, and they smiled too much, but as hard as she looked, she couldn’t see anything different. The men had been extremely careful to hide not only the knives and scrapers and chisels Jondalar had made, and the objects they were making, but even the waste products of their efforts. The smallest flint chip or spall, the tiniest curled shaving of wood or bone, was buried inside the lean-to and covered with a roof plank or a piece of leather.
But the greatest change of all was in the two crippled boys. Jondalar not only showed the youngsters how the tools were made, he made special tools for them, and then showed them both how to use them. They stopped hiding in the shadows of the lean-to and began to get acquainted with the other, older boys in the Holding. Both idolized the tall Zelandonii, Doban in particular, who was old enough to comprehend more, though he was reluctant to show it.
For as long as he could remember, living with the disturbed and irrational Attaroa, Ardoban had always felt helpless, completely at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control. In a tiny corner of his being, he had always expected something terrible to happen to him, and after the excruciatingly painful and terrifying trauma of his experience, he was convinced that his life would only get worse. He often wished he were dead. But watching someone take two stones that he found near a stream and with them, using the skill of his hands and the knowledge in his mind, offer the hope of changing his world, made a deep impression. Doban was afraid to ask—he still couldn’t trust anyone—but more than anything, he wanted to learn to make tools out of stone.
The man sensed his interest and wished that he had more flint, so he could begin to teach him, at least to get him started. Did these people go to any kind of Summer Meetings or Gatherings, he wondered, where ideas and information and goods could be exchanged? There had to be some flint knappers in the region who could train Doban. He needed to learn a skill like that, where being lame wouldn’t matter.
After Jondalar made a sample spear-thrower out of wood, to show
them what it looked like and how to make it, several of the men began to make copies of the strange implement. He also made flint spear points from some of the blanks, and out of the strongest leather they had he cut thin strips for bindings to fasten them with. Ardemun even found the ground nest of a golden eagle and brought back some good flight feathers. The only thing lacking were the shafts for the spears.
Trying to make one out of the scanty materials that were available, Jondalar cut a fairly long, thin piece out of a plank with the sharp chisel tool. He used it to show the younger men how to fasten the point and attach the feathers, and he demonstrated how to hold the spear-thrower and the basic technique for using it, without actually casting the spear. But cutting a spear shaft out of a plank was a long and tedious job, and the wood was dry and brittle, with no spring, and it broke easily.
What he needed were young, straight saplings, or reasonably long branches that could be straightened; though for that he needed the heat of a fire. He felt so frustrated stuck in the Holding. If only he could get out and look for something with which to make shafts. If only he could convince Attaroa to let him out. When he mentioned his feelings to Ebulan as they were getting ready to sleep, the man looked at him strangely, started to say something, then shook his head, closed his eyes, and turned away. Jondalar thought it was a strange reaction, but he soon forgot about it and fell asleep thinking about the problem.
Attaroa had been thinking about Jondalar, too. She was looking forward to the diversion he would give her through the long winter, gaining control over him, and seeing him do her bidding, showing everyone that she was more powerful than the tall, handsome man. Then, when she was through with him, she had other plans for him. She had been wondering if he was ready to be let out and set to work. Epadoa had told her that she thought something was going on inside the Holding, and that the stranger was involved, but she hadn’t yet discovered what it was. Perhaps it was time to separate him from the other men for a while, Attaroa thought, maybe put him back in the cage. It was a good way to keep them all unsettled.
In the morning she told her women that she wanted a work crew, and to include the Zelandonii man. Jondalar was glad just to be getting out where he could see something besides bare earth and desperate men. It was the first time he had been allowed outside the Holding to work, and he had no idea what she planned to have him do, but he hoped he would have an opportunity to look for young, straight trees. Finding a way to get them into the Holding would be another problem.
Later in the day, Attaroa strode out of her earthlodge, accompanied
by two of her women and S’Armuna, and wearing—flaunting—Jondalar’s fur parka. The men had been carrying mammoth bones that had been brought earlier from some other place, and they were piling them up where Attaroa wanted. They had worked all morning and into the afternoon with nothing to eat and little to drink. Even though he was out of the Holding, he had not been able to look for potential spear shafts, much less think of a way of cutting them down and bringing them back. He was watched too closely and given no time to rest. He was not only frustrated, he was tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and angry.
Jondalar put down one end of the legbone that he and Olamun were carrying, then stood up and faced the approaching women. As Attaroa neared, he noticed how tall she was, taller than many men. She could have been very attractive. What had happened to make her hate men so much? he wondered. When she spoke to him, her sarcasm was clear, though he didn’t understand her words.
“Well, Zelandonii, are you ready to tell us another story like your last? I’m ready to be entertained,” S’Armuna translated, complete with sarcastic intonation.
“I did not tell you a story. I told you the truth,” Jondalar said.
“That you were traveling with a woman who rides on the backs of horses? Where is this woman, then? If she has the power you say, why hasn’t she come to claim you?” Attaroa said, standing with her hands on her hips, as though to face him down.
“I don’t know where she is. I wish I did. I’m afraid she went over the cliff with the horses you were hunting,” Jondalar said.
“You lie, Zelandonii! My hunters saw no woman on the back of a horse, and no body of a woman was found with the horses. I think you have heard that the penalty for stealing from the S’Armunai is death, and you are trying to lie your way out of it,” Attaroa said.
No body was found? Jondalar was elated in spite of himself when S’Armuna translated, feeling a surge of hope that Ayla might still be alive.
“Why do you smile when I have just told you that the penalty for stealing is death? Do you doubt that I will do it?” Attaroa said, pointing to him, and then to herself for emphasis.
“Death?” he said, then paled. Could someone be put to death for hunting food? He had been so happy to think that Ayla might still be alive that he hadn’t really comprehended what she had said. When he did, his anger returned. “Horses were not given to the S’Armunai alone. They are here for all of Earth’s Children. How can you call hunting them stealing? Even if I had been hunting the horses, it would have been for food.”
“Ha! See, I’ve caught you in your lies. You admit you were hunting the horses.”
“I did not! I said, ‘Even if I had been hunting the horses.’ I didn’t say that I was.” He looked at the translator. “Tell her, S’Armuna. Jondalar of the Zelandonii, son of Marthona, former leader of the Ninth Cave, does not lie.”
“Now you say you are the son of a woman who was a leader? This Zelandonii is an accomplished liar, covering one lie about a miraculous woman with another about a woman leader.”
“I’ve known many women who were leaders. You are not the only headwoman, Attaroa. Many Mamutoi women are leaders,” Jondalar said.
“Coleaders! They share leadership with a man.”
“My mother was a leader for ten years. She became leader when her mate died, and she shared it with no one. She was respected by both women and men, and gave the leadership over to my brother Joharran willingly The people did not wish it.”
“Respected by women and men? Listen to him! You think I don’t know men, Zelandonii? You think I was never mated? Am I so ugly no man would have me?”
Attaroa was nearly screaming at him, and S’Armuna was translating almost simultaneously, as though she knew the words the headwoman would be saying. Jondalar could almost forget that the shaman was speaking for her, it seemed as though he were hearing and understanding Attaroa herself, but the shaman’s unemotional tone gave the words a strange detachment from the woman who was behaving so belligerently. A bitter, deranged look came into her eyes as she continued to harangue Jondalar.
“My mate was the leader here. He was a strong leader, a strong man.” Attaroa paused.
“Many people are strong. Strength doesn’t make a leader,” Jondalar said.
Attaroa didn’t really hear him. She wasn’t listening. Her pause was only to hear her own thoughts, to gather her own memories. “Brugar was such a strong leader that he had to beat me every day to prove it.” She sneered. “Wasn’t it a shame that the mushrooms he ate were poisonous?” Her smile was malignant. “I beat his sister’s son in a fair fight to become leader. He was a weakling. He died.” She looked at Jondalar. “But you are no weakling, Zelandonii. Wouldn’t you like a chance to fight me for your life?”
“I have no desire to fight you, Attaroa. But I will defend myself, if I must.”
“No, you will not fight me, because you know I would win. I am a
woman. I have the power of Muna on my side. The Mother has honored women; they are the ones who bring forth life. They should be the leaders,” Attaroa said.
“No,” Jondalar said. Some of the people watching flinched when the man disagreed so openly with Attaroa. “Leadership doesn’t necessarily belong to one who is blessed by the Mother any more than it does to one who is physically strong. The leader of the berry pickers, for instance, is the one who knows where the berries grow, when they will be ripe, and the best way to pick them.” Jondalar was working up to a harangue of his own. “A leader has to be dependable, trustworthy; leaders have to know what they are doing.”
Attaroa was scowling. His words had no effect on her, she listened only to her own counsel, but she didn’t like the scolding tone of his voice, as though he thought he had the right to speak so freely, or to presume to tell her anything.
“It doesn’t matter what the task is,” Jondalar continued. “The leader of the hunt is the one who knows where the animals will be and when they will be there; he is the one who can track them. He’s the one most skilled at hunting. Marthona always said leaders of people should care about the people they lead. If they don’t, they won’t be leaders for very long.” Jondalar was lecturing, venting his anger, oblivious to Attaroa’s glowering face. “Why should it matter if they are women or men?”
“I will not allow men to be leaders any more,” Attaroa interrupted. “Here, men know that women are leaders, the young ones are raised to understand it. Women are the hunters here. We don’t need men to track or lead. Do you think women cannot hunt?”
“Of course women can hunt. My mother was a hunter before she became leader, and the woman I traveled with was one of the best hunters I know. She loved to hunt and was very good at tracking. I could throw a spear farther, but she was more accurate. She could knock a bird out of the sky or kill a rabbit on the run with a single stone from her sling.”
“More stories!” Attaroa snorted. “It’s easy enough to make claims for a woman that doesn’t exist. My women didn’t hunt; they weren’t allowed to. When Brugar was leader, no women were even allowed to touch a weapon, and it was not easy for us when I became leader. No one knew how to hunt, but I taught them. Do you see these practice targets?”
Attaroa pointed to a series of sturdy posts stuck in the ground. Jondalar had noticed them in passing before, though he hadn’t known what they were for. Now he saw a large section of a horse carcass hanging from a thick wooden peg near the top of one. A few spears were sticking out of it.
“All the women must practice every day, and not just jabbing the spears hard enough to kill—throwing them, too. The best of them become my hunters. But even before we learned to make and use spears, we were able to hunt. There is a certain cliff north of here, near the place I grew up. People there chase horses off that cliff at least once every year. We learned to hunt horses like that. It is not so difficult to stampede horses off a cliff, if you can entice them up.”