“Uba, come here, mother’s ready,” Ayla said, picking up the toddler and securing her firmly to her hip with the cloak. They walked down the slope and crossed the stream to the west and continued through woods along an animal trail that had been enlarged slightly by occasional use as a path. When they came to an open meadow, Iza stopped and looked around, then headed for a stand of tall, showy, yellow flowers that resembled asters.
“This is elecampane, Ayla,” Iza said. “It usually grows in fields and open places. The leaves are large ovals with pointed ends, dark green on top and downy underneath, see?” Iza was down on her knees holding a leaf as she explained. “The rib in the middle is thick and fleshy.” Iza broke it to show her.
“Yes, mother, I see.”
“It’s the root that’s used. The plant grows from the same root every year, but it’s best to collect it the second year, late in summer or fall, then the root is smooth and solid. Cut it into small pieces and take about as much as will fit in your palm, boil it down in the small bone cup to more than half full. It should cool before it’s drunk, about two cups a day. It brings up phlegm and is especially good for the lung disease of spitting blood. It also helps to bring on sweating and to pass water.” Iza had used her digging stick to expose a root and was sitting on the ground, her hands moving rapidly as she explained. “The root can be dried and ground to a powder, too.” She dug up several roots and put them in her basket.
They moved across a small knoll, then Iza stopped again. Uba had fallen asleep, secure in her comfortable closeness. “See that little plant with the funnel-shaped yellowish flowers, purple in the middle?” Iza pointed to another plant.
Ayla touched a foot-high plant. “These?”
“Yes. That’s henbane. Very useful to a medicine woman but should never be eaten; it can be dangerously poisonous if used as food.”
“What part is used? The root?”
“Many parts. Roots, leaves, seeds. The leaves are larger than the flowers, grow one after the other on alternate sides of the stem. Pay close attention, Ayla. The leaves are a dull, pale green with spiky edges, and see the long hairs growing along the middle?” Iza touched the fine hairs while Ayla looked closely. Then the medicine woman picked a leaf and bruised it. “Smell,” she instructed. Ayla sniffed; the leaf had a strong narcotic odor.
“The smell goes away after it’s dried. Later there will be many small brown seeds.” Iza dug down and pulled out a thick, yam-shaped, corrugated root with a brown skin. The white inner color showed where it had broken. “The different parts are used for different things, but all of them are good for pain. It can be made into a tea and drunk—it’s very strong, doesn’t take much—or into a wash and applied on the skin. It stops muscle spasms, calms and relaxes, brings sleep.”
Iza gathered several plants, then walked to a nearby stand of brilliant hollyhocks and picked several of the rose, purple, white, and yellow blossoms from the tall simple stems. “Hollyhocks are good for soothing irritations, sore throats, scrapes, scratches. The flowers make a drink that can ease pain, but it makes a person sleepy. The root is good for wounds. I used hollyhock roots on your leg, Ayla.” The girl reached down and felt the four parallel scars on her thigh and thought suddenly about where she’d be now if it weren’t for Iza.
They walked along together for a while, enjoying the warm sun and the warmth of each other’s company without talking. But Iza’s eye was constantly scanning the area. The chest-high grass of the open field was golden and gone to seed. The woman looked across the field of grain, tops bent with their heavy load of mature seeds, undulating gently in the warm breeze. Then she saw something and walked purposefully through the tall stalks and stopped at a section of the rye grass whose seeds had a violet black discoloration.
“Ayla,” she said, pointing to one of the stalks. “This is not the way rye grass normally grows, it is a sickness of the seeds, but we are lucky to find it. It’s called ergot. Smell it.”
“It smells awful, like old fish!”
“But there’s magic in those sick seeds that’s especially helpful for pregnant women. If a woman is a long time in labor, it can help bring the baby faster. It causes contractions. It can start labor, too. It can make a woman lose her baby early, and that’s important, especially if she’s had problems with earlier deliveries or is still nursing. A woman shouldn’t have babies too close together, it’s hard on her, and if she loses her milk, who will feed the baby she has? Too many babies die at birth or in their first year; a mother has to take care of the one that’s already living and has a chance to grow up. There are other plants that can help her lose the baby early if she needs to, ergot is only one. It’s good after delivery, too. It helps push out the old blood and shrink her organs back to normal. It tastes bad, not as bad as it smells, but it’s useful if used wisely. Too much can cause severe cramps, vomiting, even death.”
“It’s like henbane, it can be harmful or helpful,” Ayla commented.
“That’s often true. Many times the most poisonous plants make the best and strongest medicines, if you know how to use them.”
On the way back toward the stream, Ayla stopped and pointed to an herb with bluish purple flowers, about a foot high. “There’s some hyssop. The tea is good for coughs when you have a cold, right?”
“Yes, and it adds a nice spicy flavor to any tea. Why don’t you pick some?”
Ayla pulled out several plants by the roots and plucked off the long thin leaves as she walked. “Ayla,” the woman said. “Those roots send up new plants every year. If you pull the roots there will be no plants here next summer. It’s best just to pick off the leaves if you have no use for the roots.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Ayla said contritely. “I won’t do it again.”
“Even if you use the roots, it’s best not to dig them all up from one place. Always leave some to grow more.”
They doubled back toward the stream, and when they came to a marshy spot, Iza pointed out another plant. “This is sweet rush. It looks something like iris, but it’s not the same. The boiled root made into a wash soothes burns, and chewing the roots sometimes helps toothaches, but you must be careful when giving it to a pregnant woman. Some women have lost their babies from drinking the juice, though I’ve never had much luck with it when I gave it to a woman for that purpose. It can help an upset stomach, especially constipation. You can tell the difference by this growth here,” Iza pointed. “It’s called a corm, and the plant smells stronger, too.”
They stopped and rested in the shade of a broad-leafed maple near the stream. Ayla took a leaf, curled it into the shape of a cornucopia, folded up the bottom and tucked it under her thumb, then dipped up a cool drink from the stream. She brought a drink for Iza in the makeshift cup before throwing it away.
“Ayla,” the woman began after finishing the drink. “You should do as Broud tells you, you know. He is a man, it’s his right to command you.”
“I do everything he tells me,” she countered defensively.
Iza shook her head. “But you don’t do it the way you should. You defy him, you provoke him. Someday you may regret it, Ayla. Broud will be leader one day. You must do what the men say, all the men. You are a woman, you have no choice.”
“Why should men have the right to command women? What makes them better? They can’t even have babies!” she gestured bitterly, feeling rebellious.
“That’s the way it is. That’s the way it has always been in the Clan. You are Clan now, Ayla. You are my daughter. You must behave as a girl of the Clan should.”
Ayla hung her head, feeling guilty. Iza was right, she did provoke Broud. What would have happened to her if Iza had not found her? If Brun had not let her stay? If Creb had not made her Clan? She looked at the woman, the only mother she could remember. Iza had aged. She was thin and drawn. The flesh of her once-muscular arms hung from her bones and her brown hair was almost gray. Creb had seemed so old to her at first, but he had hardly changed at all.
It was Iza who looked old now, older than Creb. Ayla worried about Iza, but whenever she said anything, the woman put her off.
“You’re right, Iza,” the child said. “I haven’t behaved the way I should to Broud. I’ll try harder to please him.”
The toddler Ayla was carrying began to squirm. She looked up, suddenly bright-eyed. “Uba hungry,” she motioned, then stuffed a chubby fist into her mouth.
Iza glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late, and Uba’s hungry. We’d better start back,” she gestured.
I wish Iza were strong enough to go out with me more often, Ayla said to herself as they hurried back to the cave. Then we could spend more time with each other, and I always learn so much more when she’s with me.
Though Ayla tried to live up to her decision to please Broud, she found her resolution hard to keep. She had fallen into the habit of not paying attention to him, knowing he would turn to someone else or do it himself if she didn’t move quickly. His dark looks held no fear for her, she felt secure from his wrath. She did stop trying to provoke him on purpose, but her impertinence had become a habit, too. For too long had she looked up at him instead of bowing her head, ignoring him instead of scurrying to do his bidding; it was automatic. Her unconscious disdain grated on him worse than her attempts to annoy him. He felt she had no respect for him. It wasn’t respect for him she had lost, it was fear.
The time when cold winds and heavy snows would force the clan into the cave again was drawing near. Ayla hated to see the leaves starting to turn, though autumn’s brilliant display always captivated her and its rich harvest of fruits and nuts kept the women busy. Ayla had little time to climb to her secret retreat during the last rush to lay in a supply of fall’s harvest, but the time passed so quickly she hardly noticed until near the end of the season.
The pace finally slowed and one day she strapped on her basket, took her digging stick, and climbed to her hidden clearing once more, planning to collect hazelnuts. The moment she arrived, she shrugged her basket off her back and went inside the cave for her sling. She had furnished her playhouse with a few implements she had made and an old sleeping fur. She took a birchbark cup from a flattish piece of wood stretched across two large rocks that also held a few shell dishes, a flint knife, and some rocks she used to crack nuts. Then she got her sling from the covered wicker basket where she kept it. After getting a drink from the spring, she ran along the creek looking for pebbles.
She made a few practice shots. Vorn doesn’t hit his targets as often as I do, she thought, pleased with herself when her stones landed where she aimed them. After a while, she grew tired of the sport, put her sling and the last few pebbles away, and began to pick up the nuts scattered on the ground beneath the thick, gnarled old bushes. She was thinking how wonderful life was. Uba was growing and thriving and Iza seemed much better. Creb’s aches and pains were always less severe in the warm summers and she loved the slow shambling walks with him beside the stream. Playing with the sling was a game she loved and she had become quite skillful with it. It was almost too easy to hit the post or the rocks and branches she sighted as targets, but there was still an excitement about playing with the forbidden weapon. And best of all, Broud didn’t bother her at all anymore. She didn’t think anything could ever spoil her happiness as she filled her gathering basket with nuts.
Brown, dry leaves were caught by the brisk winds as they fell from the trees, whirled around by their unseen partner, and dropped gently to the ground. They covered the nuts still scattered beneath those trees that had brought them to maturity. Fruit not picked for winter storage hung ripe and heavy on branches bereft of foliage. The eastern steppes were a golden sea of grain, rippled by wind in imitation of the foam-bedecked waves of gray water to the south; and the last of the sweet clusters of plump, round grapes, bursting with juice, beckoned to be picked.
The men were in their usual knot planning one of the last hunting trips of the season. They had been discussing the proposed trek since early morning, and Broud had been sent to tell a woman to bring them water to drink. He saw Ayla sitting near the mouth of the cave with sticks and pieces of thong spread out around her. She was constructing frames from which bunches of grapes would be hung until they dried to raisins.
“Ayla! Bring water!” Broud signaled and started back.
The girl was lashing a critical corner, supporting the unfinished frame against her body. If she moved just then, it would collapse and she’d have to start over again. She hesitated, looked to see if another woman was nearby, then heaving a sigh of reluctance, got up slowly, and went to find a large waterbag.
The young man fought to quell the anger that quickly rose at her obvious reluctance to obey him, and struggling with his fury, he looked for another woman who would respond to his request with proper alacrity. Suddenly, he changed his mind. He looked back at Ayla just getting up and narrowed his eyes. What gave her the right to be so insolent? Am I not a man? Isn’t it her place to obey me? Brun never told me to allow such disrespect, he thought. He can’t put a death curse on me just for making her do what she’s supposed to do. What kind of leader would let a female defy him? Something snapped inside Broud. Her impudence has gone on too long! I won’t let her get away with it. She will obey me!
The thoughts came to him in the split second it took to make the three strides covering the distance between them. Just as she stood up, his hard fist caught her by surprise and knocked her flat. Her startled look quickly changed to anger. She glanced around and saw Brun watching, but there was a quality about his expressionless face that warned her to expect no assistance from him. The rage in Broud’s eyes changed her anger to fear. He had seen her flash of anger and it aroused his passionate hatred of her. How dare she defy him!
Quickly, Ayla scrambled out of the way of the next blow. She ran toward the cave to find the waterbag. Broud stared after her, his fists clenched, fighting to keep his fury within manageable bounds. He glanced toward the men and saw Brun’s impassive face. There was no encouragement in his expression, but no denial either. Broud watched as Ayla hurried to the pool to fill the bag, then hoist the heavy bladder on her back. He had not missed her quick response nor her look of fear when she saw that he meant to hit her again. It made his anger a little easier to control. I’ve been too easy on her, he thought.
As Ayla passed close to Broud, bent over with the weight of the heavy water-filled bag, he gave her a shove that nearly knocked her down again. Anger flushed her cheeks. She straightened up, shot him a quick hate-filled glance, and slowed her step. He went after her again. She ducked, taking the blow on her shoulder. The clan was watching now. The girl looked toward the men. Brun’s hard stare hurried her more than Broud’s fists had. She ran the short distance, knelt down, and began pouring water into a cup, keeping her head bowed. Broud followed slowly behind, fearful of Brun’s reaction.
“Crug was saying he saw the herd traveling north, Broud,” Brun motioned casually as Broud rejoined the group.
It was all right! Brun was not angry at him! Of course, why should he be angry? I did the right thing. Why should he make any reference to a man disciplining a female who deserved it? Broud’s sigh of relief was almost audible.
When the men were through drinking, Ayla returned to the cave. Most of the people had gone back to what they were doing, but Creb still stood at the entrance watching her.
“Creb! Broud almost beat me again,” she gestured, running up to him. She looked up at the old man she loved, but the smile on her face faded as she saw a look on his she had never seen before.
“You only got what you deserved,” he motioned with a grim scowl. His eye was hard. He turned his back on her and limped back to his hearth. Why is Creb mad at me? she thought.
Later that evening, Ayla shyly approached the old magician and reached out to put her arms around his neck, a gesture that had never failed to melt his heart before. He made no response, didn’t even bother to shrug her away. He just stared into the distance,
cold and aloof. She shrunk back.
“Don’t bother me. Go find worthwhile work to do, girl. Mog-ur is meditating, he has no time for insolent females,” he motioned with an abrupt, impatient gesture.
Tears filled her eyes. She was hurt and suddenly a little frightened of the old magician. He wasn’t the Creb she knew and loved anymore. He was Mog-ur. For the first time since she came to live with the clan, she understood why everyone else kept their distance and stood in awe and fear of the great Mog-ur. He had withdrawn from her. With a look and a few gestures, he conveyed disapproval and a sense of rejection stronger than she had ever felt. He didn’t love her anymore. She wanted to hug him, to tell him she loved him, but she was afraid. She shuffled over to Iza.
“Why is Creb so angry with me?” she motioned.
“I told you before, Ayla, you should do as Broud says. He is a man, he has the right to command you,” Iza said gently.
“But, I do everything he says. I’ve never disobeyed him.”
“You resist him, Ayla. You defy him. You know you are insolent. You do not behave as a well brought-up girl should. It’s a reflection on Creb—and on me. Creb feels he has not trained you properly, has allowed you too much freedom, has let you have your own way with him so you think you can have your own way with everyone. Brun is not happy with you either, and Creb knows it. You run all the time. Children run, Ayla, not girls the size of women. You make those sounds in your throat. You do not move quickly when you are told to do something. Everyone disapproves of you, Ayla. You have shamed Creb.”
“I didn’t know I was so bad, Iza,” Ayla gestured. “I did not want to be bad, I just didn’t think about it.”
“But you should think about it. You’re too big to behave like a child.”
“It’s just that Broud has always been so mean to me, and he beat me so hard that time.”