The Caves of Périgord: A Novel

from the time of his birth, and the one who had helped him finish the coloring of the bison, to be his pupil. He would rather have chosen Moon—and he now thought of her as simply “Moon”—not for what she meant to him but simply for her talent. The other Keepers had embraced him, and the Keeper of the Bulls had managed barely to touch him during his cursory contact. And that had been all.
    Without knowing exactly what to expect, he had expected more. Perhaps a ritual introduction to the beasts of the cave, or a token contribution to the work of each of the other Keepers, or a common sacrifice at the entrance fire. But no, not even a feast. This had been a routine business at the close of a routine day, and Deer felt diminished by it. Dry Leaf was looking up at him with stars in his eyes, finally believing that he too one day might ascend to the splendid rank of Keeper. Deer could not let his disappointment show before the lad, and so gave him firm instructions on the colors he would need for the morrow, and sent him scampering off down the hill, looking younger than Deer thought he had every been.
    “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