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“Does anyone else have any more opinions?”
“Broud would speak, Brun.”
“Broud may speak.”
“All these ideas are interesting, and may give us something to think about on cold winter days, but the traditions of the Clan are clear. Born to the Others or not, the girl is Clan. Clan females may not hunt. They may not even touch a weapon, or any tool that is used to make a weapon. We all know the punishment. She must die. It makes no difference if long ago women once hunted. Because a she-bear hunts, or a lioness, doesn’t mean a woman may. We are neither bears nor lions. It makes no difference if she has a powerful totem or if she brings luck to the clan. It makes no difference if she is good with a sling or even that she saved the life of the son of my mate. I am grateful for that, of course—everyone has noticed I said so many times on the way back, I’m sure—but it makes no difference. The traditions of the Clan make no allowances. A woman who uses a weapon must die. We cannot change that. It is the way of the Clan.
“This whole meeting is a waste of time. There is no other decision you can make, Brun. I am finished.”
“Broud is right,” Dorv said. “It is not our place to change the traditions of the Clan. One exception leads to another. Soon there would be nothing we can count on. The punishment is death; the girl must die.”
There were a couple of nods of agreement. Brun did not respond immediately. Broud is right, he thought. What other decision can I make? She saved Brac’s life, but she used a weapon to do it. Brun wasn’t any closer to a resolution than he was the day Ayla pulled out her sling and killed the hyena.
“I will take all your thoughts into consideration before I make my decision. But now I want to ask each of you to give me a definite answer,” the leader finally said. The men were sitting in a circle around the fire. They each clenched a fist and held it in front of their chests. A movement up and down would mean an affirmative answer, a lateral movement of the fist, no.
“Grod,” Brun began with his second-in-command, “do you think the girl Ayla should die?”
Grod hesitated. He sympathized with the leader’s dilemma. He had been Brun’s second for many years, he could almost read the leader’s thoughts, and his respect for him had grown with time. But he could see no alternative; he moved his fist up, then down.
“What other choice is there, Brun?” he added.
“Grod says yes. Droog?” Brun asked, turning to the toolmaker.
Droog did not hesitate. He moved his fist across his chest.
“Droog says no. Crug, how about you?”
Crug looked at Brun, then Mog-ur, and finally Broud. He moved his fist up.
“Crug says yes, the girl should die,” Brun confirmed. “Goov?”
The young acolyte responded immediately by drawing his fist across his chest.
“Goov’s opinion is no. Broud?”
Broud moved his fist up before Brun could say his name, and Brun moved on just as quickly. He knew Broud’s answer.
“Yes. Zoug?”
The old sling-master sat up proudly and moved his fist back and forth across his chest with an emphasis that left no doubt.
“Zoug thinks the girl should not die, what do you think, Dorv?”
The hand of the other old man went up, and before he could bring it down, all eyes turned toward Mog-ur.
“Dorv says yes. Mog-ur, what is your opinion?” Brun asked. He had guessed what the others would say, but the leader wasn’t sure about the old magician.
Creb agonized. He knew the Clan traditions. He blamed himself for Ayla’s crime, for giving her too much freedom. He felt guilty about his love for her, afraid it would usurp his reason, afraid he would think of himself before his duty to his clan, and began to move his fist up. Logically he decided she must die. But before he could start the movement, his fist jerked to the side, as though someone had grabbed it and moved it for him. He could not bring himself to condemn her, though he would do what he must, once the decision was made. He had no choice. The choice was Brun’s and only Brun’s.
“The opinions are evenly divided,” the leader announced. “The decision was never anything but mine anyway, I only wanted to know how you felt. I will need some time to think about what was said today. Mog-ur says we will have a ceremony tonight. That’s good. I will need the help of the spirits, and we all may need their protection. You will know my decision in the morning. She will know then, too. Go now and prepare for the ceremony.”
Brun remained by the fire alone after the men left. Clouds scudded across the sky, driven by brisk winds, and dropped intermittent icy showers as they passed, but Brun was as oblivious to the rain as he was to the last dying embers sputtering in the fireplace. It was nearing dark when he finally hauled himself up and plodded slowly back to the cave. He saw Ayla still sitting where he had seen her when they left in the morning. She expects the worst, he said to himself. What else can she expect?
16
The clan gathered outside the cave early. A chill east wind was blowing, hinting of icier blasts, but the sky was clear and the morning sun just above the ridge, bright, in contrast to the somber mood. They avoided each other’s eyes; arms hung limp with the absence of conversation as they shuffled to their places to learn the fate of the strange girl who was no stranger to them.
Uba could feel her mother shaking and her hand gripped so hard it hurt. The child knew it was more than the wind that made her mother shiver so hard. Creb was standing at the mouth of the cave. Never had the great magician seemed more forbidding, his ravaged face set in chiseled granite, his single eye opaque as stone. At a signal from Brun, he limped into the cave, slowly, wearily, weighted by an overwhelming burden. He walked into his hearth and looked at the girl sitting on her fur, and with a supreme effort of will, forced himself to approach her.
“Ayla. Ayla,” he said gently. The girl looked up. “It’s time. You must come now.” Her eyes were dull, uncomprehending. “You must come now, Ayla. Brun is ready,” Creb repeated.
Ayla nodded and dragged herself up. Her legs were stiff from sitting so long. She hardly noticed. She followed dumbly behind the old man, staring at the tr
ampled dust still bearing traces of those who had walked that way before—a heelmark, the imprint of toes, the blurred outline of a foot encased in a loose leather pouch, the round butt of Creb’s staff and the furrow of his dragging lame leg. She stopped when she saw Brun’s feet, wrapped in their dusty coverings, and dropped to the ground. At a light tap on her shoulder, she forced herself to look up into the clan leader’s face.
The impact jolted her to awareness and awakened an undefinable fear. It was familiar—low, swept-back forehead, heavy brows, large beaky nose, grizzled beard—but the proud, stern, hard look in the leader’s eyes was gone, replaced by sincere compassion and luminous sorrow.
“Ayla,” he said aloud, then continued with the formal gestures reserved for serious occasions, “girl of the Clan, the traditions are ancient. We have lived by them for generations, almost as long as the Clan has existed. You were not born to us, but you are one of us, and you must live, or die, by those same customs. While we were north, hunting mammoth, you were seen using a sling and you have hunted with a sling before. Clan females may not use weapons, that is one of our traditions. The punishment, too, is part of the traditions. It is the Clan way, it may not be changed.” Brun leaned forward and looked into the frightened blue eyes of the girl.
“I know why you used the sling, Ayla, though I still can’t understand why you ever started. Brac would not be alive if it hadn’t been for you.” He straightened and with the most formal of gestures, made so everyone could see, he added, “The leader of this clan is grateful to the girl for saving the life of the son of the mate of the son of my mate.”
A few glances passed among the watching clan. It was a rare concession for a man to make publicly, and more rare for a leader to admit gratitude to a mere girl.
