hat had almost made her decide to forgo this dangerous ceremony was gone. Her unhappiness matched the black void she was facing. What did it matter if she lost herself there? It couldn’t be any worse than the way she felt at that moment. She was struggling to regain the self-control that seemed so elusive today. It almost seemed she had been on the verge of tears since she woke up.
She took a shallow stone bowl from her leather sack, and a fur package. Inside was a small, nearly watertight bag of fat with a stoppered end, which was wrapped and tied in the piece of fur to keep any seeping grease from damaging anything nearby. She found her package of lichen wicks, poured a little oil in the bowl, soaked a wick in it for a few moments, then pulled it out and leaned it against the edge of the bowl-shaped lamp. She was preparing to use her firestone to light it when she saw two more zelandonia walking up the path.
The sight of the zelandonia brought Ayla an added measure of composure. She was still new to their ranks, and wanted to keep their respect. They greeted each other and spoke of inconsequential matters; then one of them held the lamp while watching Ayla start a small fire on the ground with her firestone. Once the lamp was lit, she smothered the fire with dirt and all three entered the cave.
Once they passed through the warmth of the entrance area, and entered the total darkness of the inside, the temperature cooled to the ambient temperature of most caves, about fifty-five degrees. There was little conversation as they picked their way along exposed rocks and slippery clay with only a single lamp to show the way. By the time they reached a larger chamber, their eyes were so accustomed to the dark that the lights from many stone lamps seemed almost bright. Most of the zelandonia had already arrived and were waiting for Ayla.
“There you are, Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave,” the First said. “Have you made all the preparations you think are necessary?”
“Not quite,” Ayla said. “I still have to change. During the Clan ceremony, I would be naked except for my amulet and the colors painted on my body by the Mog-ur, when I make the drink. But it’s too cold in the cave to be naked for very long, and besides, the mog-urs who drank the liquid wore clothes, so I will, too. I think it’s important to stay as close to the Clan ceremony as possible, so I’ve decided to wear a wrap in the style of a Clan woman. I made a Clan amulet for my totem symbols, and to show that I am a medicine woman, I will wear my Clan medicine bag, although it is the objects in my amulet that are more important. It will enable the the Clan spirits to recognize me not only as a woman of the Clan, but as a medicine woman.”
With all the zelandonia looking on with great curiosity, Ayla removed her clothing and began wrapping the soft, pliable deerhide around her, tying it on her with a long cord in such a way as to leave pouches and folds to hold things. She thought about all the things she was doing that were not Clan, starting with her preparing the drink for herself instead of for the mog-urs. She was not a mog-ur—no woman of the Clan could be one—and she didn’t know the rituals they performed to ready themselves for this ceremony, but she was a Zelandoni and she hoped that would make a difference once she reached the spirit world.
She took a small pouch out of her medicine bag. There was enough light from the many lamps to show its deep red ocher color, the color most sacred to the Clan, and then she took a wooden bowl out of the leather packframe. She had made the bowl some time ago in the style of the Clan to show Marthona, who, with her aesthetic sense, appreciated the simplicity and craftsmanship. Ayla had planned to give it to the woman and now she was glad she still had it. If it wasn’t the special bowl that had been used only for this root for the many generations of Iza’s ancestors, it was at least a wooden bowl made in the painstaking way the Clan made them.
“I will need some water,” Ayla said as she undid the knots of the red pouch. She emptied the bag of roots into her hand.
“May I see them?” Zelandoni asked.
Ayla held them out to her, but there was nothing distinctive about them. They were just dried roots. “I’m not sure how much to use,” she said, picking out two small pieces, hoping it would be correct. “I’ve only done this twice before, and I don’t have Iza’s memories.”
A few of the zelandonia there had heard her speak about Clan memories, but most had no idea what she meant. She had tried to explain them to Zelandoni Who Was First, but since she didn’t know exactly what they were herself, it was hard to explain to someone else.
Someone poured water into her wooden bowl, and Ayla drank a little to wet her mouth. She remembered how dry the roots were and how hard they were to chew. “I am ready,” she said, and before she could change her mind, she put the roots in her mouth and began to chew.
It took a long time to soften them up enough to bite through, and though she did try to avoid swallowing her own saliva, it was difficult, and she thought to herself, since I’m the one who’s going to drink it, maybe it doesn’t matter too much. She chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed. It seemed to take forever, but finally her mouth held a soggy pulp, which she spit into the bowl. She stirred it with her finger, and watched the liquid turn a milky white.
Zelandoni was looking over her shoulder. “Is that what it’s supposed to do?” She seemed to be trying to detect its odor.
“Yes,” Ayla said. She could feel its primeval taste in her mouth. “Would you like to smell it?”
“It smells ancient,” the woman said, “like a deep cool wet forest full of moss and mushrooms. May I taste it?”
She was going to refuse. It was so sacred to the Clan, Iza couldn’t even make some just to show her how, and for a moment, Ayla was appalled that Zelandoni would ask. But then she realized this whole experiment was so far from anything the Clan would do that it could hardly matter if Zelandoni took a drink. Ayla held the bowl to the woman’s lips and watched her take much more than a sip, and pulled it back before she took too much.
Then she held it to her own mouth and drank it down quickly, making sure there was none left for anyone else to sample. That was how she got in trouble the first time. Iza had told her there was not supposed to be any left, but she had made too much, and after his first taste, The Mog-ur knew it was too strong. He controlled how much each man drank, and left some in the bottom of the bowl. Ayla had found it later, after she had ingested too much from chewing the root and had too much of the women’s drink besides. She was in such a confused state, she drank the rest down so none would be left. This time, she would make sure no one else would inadvertently be tempted to try it.
“When should we start to chant for you?” the First asked.
Ayla almost forgot about the chanting. “Probably should have started already,” she said, a slight slur in her voice already.
The First was feeling the effects of her rather large taste as well, and struggled to keep her control as she signaled the zelandonia to begin chanting. That is a powerful root, she thought, and I only had one drink. What must Ayla be feeling now after all she drank? Zelandoni thought.
The ancient taste was familiar, and it brought on feelings Ayla would never forget, memories and associations of the other times she had tasted the drink, and of times long past. She felt the cool and damp of a deep forest, as though she were enveloped within it, with trees so huge it was difficult to find a way around and between them as she climbed up the steep side of a mountain followed by the horse. Lichen, damply soft and silvery grayish green, draped the trees, and moss covered the ground and rocks and logs of dead trees in a continuous carpet that ranged in shades from bright true green to deep pine green to rich earthy brownish green and all shades in between.
Ayla could smell fungus, mushrooms of every size and shape: fragile white wings sprouting from fallen trees, thick woody shelves attached to old stumps, large dense sponge-like brown capped, tiny delicate thin stemmed. There were honey-colored tight clusters, compact round spheres, shiny red tops with white spots, tall smooth caps that melted to black ooze, ghostly white perfect caps of death, and many more. She knew them all, tasted
them all, felt them all.
She was in a great delta of a huge river, carried by a stream of muddy brown water, breaking through thick stands of tall phragmite reeds and cattails, and floating islands with trees and wolves that climbed them, spinning round and round in a small leather-covered bowl boat, rising up and floating on a cushion of air.
Ayla didn’t know her knees had buckled as she went limp and dropped to the ground. She was picked up by several zelandonia and carried to a resting place that Zelandoni had thought to have brought into the cave for her. The First almost wished she had one as well as she reached for her strong padded wicker stool. She struggled to stay aware, to watch Ayla, and felt a dark tinge of worry start to develop in the back of her mind.
Ayla was feeling peaceful, quiet, sinking into a soft mist that was drawing her deeper in, until she was surrounded. It thickened around her into a fog that obscured all vision, then became a heavy damp cloud. She felt swallowed by it. She was suffocating, struggled to breathe, gasped for air, then felt herself begin to move.
She was moving faster and faster, caught in the middle of the suffocating cloud, rushing so fast it took her breath away, left her with no air. The cloud wrapped itself around her, squeezed her, pushing in from all sides, contracting, expanding, contracting, like something alive. It forced her to move with accelerating velocity until she fell into a deep, black empty space, a place as black as the inside of a cave, mindless, terrifying.
It would have been less terrifying if she had simply dropped into sleep, become unconscious, as it appeared she had to those watching, but she was not. She couldn’t move, didn’t really have a desire to move, but when she tried to focus her will to move something, even just a finger, she could not. She couldn’t even feel her finger, or any other part of herself. She couldn’t open her eyes, or turn her head; she had no volition, no will, but she could hear. At some level, she was aware. As though from a distance and yet with great clarity, she could hear the chant of the zelandonia; she could hear the faint murmur of voices from one corner, though she couldn’t make out what they were saying; she could even hear her own heart beating.