Martin Walker - The Caves of Perigord

“Come eat at my fire this night,” said the Keeper of the Horses, and took him closely by the arm to lead him downhill, saying nothing, but making a ceremony of it.

At his fire, all the Keeper’s kin were gathered, standing to welcome them. Sons and daughters and baby grandchildren, even his woman’s brothers. This was a full assembly, as if for a funeral or-his hopes leaped-a betrothal. Moon darted to the water skin hanging on its tripod and thrust two handful of moss into the water that had been warmed by hot stones. She withdrew them, dripping, and handed one to her father and the other to Deer, her eyes downcast.

“Welcome to this hearth, Keeper of the Deer,” she said, her voice not quite even. They sluiced off the dust of the day. Deer sniffed the air and looked down at the roasting meat on the spit above the fire. Moon bent and gave the spit a quarter turn, and then took some wild herbs from a beveled stone and sprinkled them onto the glistening surface. He smiled in pleasure at the girl’s concentration on her task.

The Keeper’s woman handed a wooden bowl to her husband and another to him, and made her own welcome. Deer sipped at the fermented honey, sweet and yet sour at the same time, and burning a little in his throat. He had never drunk it before, but had helped the old man reel into his furs after taking too much of this drink with his cronies.

As they drank, he saw a small parade of torches coming toward them. The Keeper of the Ibex, the Keeper of the Bear, with their wives and apprentices. Each woman bore a wooden bowl, and they kneeled to him in turn, laying the offerings of berries, nuts, and sweet pine kernels at his feet. As if from nowhere, Dry Leaf was standing proudly at his elbow, and in his hand was the old man’s lamp, fresh-filled and lit, making the boy’s face lively with the dancing lights of the flame. Someone must have told the lad what to do. He felt both glad and angry that the Keeper of the Bulls had not come, comprehending that this made it a private festivity in the absence of any official one.

“Welcome to the brotherhood, Keeper of the Deer,” said each of his colleagues in turn. And each took a bowl of the fermented honey and bowed to him as they sipped. Then there were gifts. From the Keeper of the Horses, a tunic of reindeer hide, the sleeves sewn to the shoulders with thongs. From the dazzling smile Moon gave him as he admired the work, he felt sure that she had made it. For him. He slipped it over his head, but then was stuck. He had never put on a garment with sleeves before. Laughing, the Keeper’s woman helped him into it and tied the thong at his neck. It came down almost to his knees, and they all smiled at the pleasure he took in it.

From the Keeper of the Ibex came a fine flint ax. The thongs that bound it to the haft were cunningly seated, and plaited all the way down the handle to give a secure grip. He weighed it in his hand, feeling the easy balance. “Try it; try it,” called the giver. He took a log from the pile waiting for the fire, and with four brisk strokes sharpened the blunt end into a pointed stake. He marveled at its sharp efficiency and bowed his thanks. From the Keeper of the Bears came a fine skin sack, with woven loops so that he could sling it from his shoulders and wear it on his back. He slipped it on, and felt a weight within. Inside was a woven belt, with a small pouch attached, with flint and firestone and tinder inside. His thanks were heartfelt as he put the belt around his waist, feeling the comforting weight of the pouch, his pouch, on his thigh. He had never owned such things. He had never really owned anything. He felt rich and treasured.

“I thank you, honored colleagues, for this welcome,” he said, surprised that he was not stammering in his pleasure and surprise.

Suddenly, a torch flickered on the rim of the gathering, and the Keeper of the Bulls came in quickly to join them, his sister behind him with an infant whimpering in her arms.

“Forgive me, brothers. A man without a woman is not master of his time when a babe frets.”

“The child is ailing,” said his sister, and the other women crowded around in concern, leaving just the men around Deer and the Keeper of the Bulls. Deer noted how swiftly the focus had moved from him to the late arrival.

The Keeper of the Bulls bowed to Deer. “Salute and welcome to our new brother.”

He had brought a bowl of new berries and laid them casually at Deer’s feet. Then from his own belt, he took a long flint knife, a finely wrought stone of green whose blade was as curved and even as a laurel leaf, its handle wrapped in strips of shrunken rawhide. The thongs tailed off into a long loop that slung around the wearer’s neck. He came up to Deer and took his arm. Staring fixedly into Deer’s eyes, he ran the edge of the sharp blade lightly over the youth’s forearm. He lifted the blade to his lips and blew away the scraps of hair the keen knife had shaved from the skin.

“Use it well, brother,” he said, without a trace of a smile. He took the loop from around his own neck, slipped it over Deer’s, and gave him the knife. It was a princely gift. The Keeper of the Bulls leaned forward and embraced Deer, who felt the power of the man, before he stood back and thanked him in deep sincerity. Perhaps he had misjudged this man, this rival for Moon. The bonds of the Keeper’s brotherhood had proved sacred to him as well. He slipped the knife into his belt, noting how its narrowing between blade and handle made it fit snugly.

The woman of the Keeper of the Horses left the knot of women around the fretting babe and led Deer to the broad log before her fire and bade him sit. The other Keepers settled alongside him, and Moon took a long, green knife of flint and a smooth brown stick that had been sharpened to a point as two of her brothers lifted the long spit from the fire. Holding the meat firmly with the stick, Moon began slicing the steaming, aromatic flesh. The first and honored slice she placed on a warmed stone and brought to Deer. Her head seemed to be downturned, but her eyes laughed with delight at him from under her lashes as he bowed and thanked her. This time he did stammer.

“You’ll be ready for the time of mating,” chortled the Keeper of the Bear at his side. “Looks as if someone has already chosen you.”

“Is the feast always given to a new Keeper? Was this how it was in your time?” he asked, skirting the topic of Moon, although his eyes followed her as she served the other Keepers.

“My time was a long time ago. We had just started the work in the cave then. My father made a feast for me,” he said. “But you have no father, so the Keeper of the Horses said the brotherhood should attend you.”

“You attend me just this evening and in matters of the cave, or at all times? Forgive me, but I know not the customs.”

“Why, at all times. At the hunt, at times of sacrifice, at times of betrothal, and even in time of war, the Keepers stand together. Our hearths are always open to our brother Keepers. We are bound like kin to take one another’s part, just as the hunters and the flint men do. We mourn one another’s deaths and celebrate one another’s births.”

“And if this rule be broken, if one Keeper should stand against another?”

“That happens not. We have our council where all matters are discussed until we are resolved and of one mind. Yes, there are arguments, but finally we come to agreement. That is the way of the brotherhood. You saw this evening how it is sacred to us all.”

The next morning, Deer took his place in the line of young men who gathered before the cave. The other Keepers stood behind the sacrifice fire, and once again the Keeper of the Bulls had donned his eagle’s headdress and placed the bull’s skull behind the fire. Beside the fire stood the leaders of the hunters, the fishers, the flint men, and the woodmen. Each bore his sign of office, the bow and the barbed fish spear, the great flint ax and the smooth and blackened club, whose head was carved into the shape of a bird with a sharp, pecking beak. Two boys held the young reindeer that had been saved from the slaughter at the cliff. Its front and rear feet were hobbled with thongs, but its eyes rolled and it kept trying to duck its head down between its own shoulders.