By cavebear
He called himself Wanderer. It seemed to him that he had been wandering almost all of his adult life, and he was very old and very tired. What had started as a Journey had become more than that; an endless wandering. In his 30 years of wandering, he had been from the immense ice-cliffs of the North to the Southern areas where trees blocked out the skies and one could hardly penetrate the thick growth. He had seen the sun setting in the evening over unbroken waters, and he had seen the sun rise from similar waters at the opposite end of the land. He had seen deserts and tundra, endless plains of grasses and high wind-swept mountains. He had been everywhere there was to go. He was so very tired, and he was always lonely.
There had been a mate, once. The finest woman who had ever lived, and, even after all these years without her, he still felt the pain of her absence. She had been daring, fearless, and brilliant. Most importantly, she had loved him unreservedly.
The loss of her was still a fresh wound in his heart. It renewed itself upon each morning’s awakening, and it remained with him all his waking hours. His only surcease was in the dream-time, when he could walk and ride with her in the fertile plains, laugh again with her in the daily chores, and watch her with amazement on the hunt. He wished he could sleep forever and live in those dreams for all time.
That was not possible, though. And, for now, he rode on a horse and lead another along with him carrying the supplies. He could not possibly have walked very far any more. It was hard enough just doing the bare necessities of traveling. He could set up his small shelter, get a fire going, collect some food with his accustomed spear-thrower and the sling he had finally learned to use after many years, and the other myriad things required when on one’s own. But it grew harder every year, and lately, it became harder every moon. One day soon, he knew, he would lay down to sleep and not awaken. In some ways, he looked forward to that, but he wasn’t quite ready for the endless sleep yet. There were still more people to tell his story to, and he had a vow to keep.
He had lost his love in an Earthquake. When it had begun, they were both outside the cave. While he was trying to free a male from under a fallen tree, she had screamed "the children" and plunged in among the falling rocks. He had barely had time to pull the tree to one side when he saw her shape in the dust of the cave mouth. Two children had been shoved out of the cave just as the whole thing collapsed.
The frantic efforts to unblock the rubble had been useless. She was dead in the cave, crushed by many stones. Their children were grown and had started their own lives. He had nothing remaining to keep him there, and had left just days afterward.
Her name was Ayla, and his was Jondalar, and he had decided to tell the whole world her story.
For these 30 years, he had been travelling from camp to camp. Some settlements were large, with many people in them. Some were only a few skin shelters with only a few adults and children. It didn’t matter to him. Wherever he went, people were grateful for visitors and some istories of the outside world. Sometimes he helped teach flint-knapping, sometimes spear-throwing. At other places, his horses were enough to gain the welcome of the people he visited.
He had seen amazing things in his long wandering. In one place, the people were riding horses just like he did. In others, they were frightened by his use of them. Once, he had even found a people who had grains that they tended around their cluster of tents, as Ayla had begun doing that last year of her life. He was so grateful to discover that her idea was a good one, but he was not very surprised; she always had good reasons for the things she tried.
Eventually, the nightime campfire-gathering would begin, and he would be asked to tell a story. He always told the same story, and over the years, he had perfected the tale and the rythmic gestures and flourishes to accompany it.
"They called her Ayla", he would begin, and his telling would last until daylight. The children would fall asleep either among themselves in a pile like wolf cubs or in their mothers’ laps (depending on the practices of his hosts), but few of the adults every left the campfire until he reached the end of the story. He would then sleep most of the day, help cheerfully with the evening cooking (he had become very good at it and had an immense collection of interesting techniques to teach even experienced cooks).
Sometimes, on the second night, a nervous young woman would come to his furs, attracted by his still-clear blue eyes, his physique, or his exotic looks. More rarely, a more mature female would arrive, drawn to depths of his love for his lost mate or to seek comfort in the company of one who understood her own loss and would be gone in the morning.
And he always left early the third morning. Tarrying longer, he had learned, would only make himself (and by extension, Ayla) seem more ordinary. He would select some far off landmark, or he might be guided by recommendations to another camp. Sometimes he just let the horses choose the way. It was all the same to him. There were people almost everywhere (meaning a few days ride by horse), and that was sufficient to his needs. As long as he could tell his tale and honor Ayla’s life, he was satisfied.