Jondalar's stone-working technique was a revolutionary improvement, but as important as the blade it produced was the scar it left behind on the core. The ridge he had made was gone. In its place was a long trough with two ridges on either side. That had been the purpose of the careful preworking. He moved the tip of the punch over so that it was above one of the new ridges, then tapped again with the bone hammer. Another long narrow blade fell off, leaving two more ridges behind. He moved the punch again, above another of the ridges, detached another blade, and created more ridges.
When he finally ran out of usable material, not six, but twenty-five blades were lined up in a row – more than four times the useful cutting edge from the same amount of stone: more than four times the number of blanks. Long and thin, with surgically sharp edges, the blades were usable as cutting implements as they were, but they were not his finished product. They would be further shaped for a multitude of uses, primarily to make other tools. Depending on the shape and quality of the flint nodule, not four, but up to six or seven times the usable number of blanks for tools could be made from stones of the same size with the more advanced technique. The new method not only gave the toolmaker more control, it gave his people an unparalleled advantage.
Jondalar picked up one of the blades and gave it to Ayla. She checked the sharpness of the edge lightly with her thumb, exerted some pressure to test its strength, and turned it over in her hand. It curved up at the ends; it was the nature of the material, but more noticeable in the long thin blade. She held her palm out flat and watched it rock on its bowed back. The shape did not, however, limit its function.
"Jondalar, this is… I don't know the word. It's wonderful… important. You made so many… You are not through with these, are you?"
He smiled. "No, I'm not through."
"They are so thin and fine – they are beautiful. They might break more easily, but I think with the ends retouched, they'd be strong scrapers." Her practical side was already imagining the blanks into tools.
"Yes, and like yours, good knives – though I'd want to put a tang on it for a handle."
"I don't know what 'tang' is."
He picked up a blade to explain. "I can blunt the back of this and shape a point, and I would have a knife. If I pressure off a few flakes on the inner face, I can even straighten out the curve somewhat. Now, about halfway down the blade, if I use pressure to break off the edge and make a shoulder, and leave just a prong on the lower end, that is a tang."
He picked up a small segment of antler. "If I fit the tang into a piece of bone, or wood, or antler like this, the knife will have a handle. It's easier to use with a handle. If you boil antler for a while, it will swell and soften, and then you can force the tang into the middle where it's softer. When the antler dries, it shrinks and tightens around the tang. Often it will hold without binding or glue for a long time."
Ayla was excited about the new method, and wanted to practice it as she had always done after watching Droog, but she wasn't sure if it would violate Jondalar's customs or traditions. The more she learned about the ways of his people, the less sense they made. He didn't seem to mind her hunting, but he might not want her to make his kind of tools.
"I would like to… Is there… objection to women making tools?"
Her question pleased him. It took skill to make her kind of tools. He was sure even the best toolmaker had inconsistent results, though the worst could probably turn out some that were usable – even smashing a flint boulder by accident usually produced a few pieces that were usable. But he would have understood if she had tried to justify her method. Instead, she seemed to recognize his technique for what it was – a vast improvement – and wanted to try it. He wondered how he would feel if someone showed him as radical an improvement.
I'd want to learn it, he said to himself with a wry grin.
"Women can be good flint knappers. Joplaya, my cousin, is one of the best. But she's a terrible tease – so I would never tell her that. She'd never let me forget it." He smiled at the memory.
"In the Clan, women can make tools, but not weapons."
"Women make weapons. After they have children, Zelandonii women seldom hunt, but if they learned when they were young, they understand how weapons are used. Many tools and weapons are lost or broken on a hunt. A man whose mate knows how to make new ones always has a fresh supply. And women are closer to the Mother. Some men think women-made weapons are luckier. But if a man has bad luck – or lacks skill – he'll always blame the toolmaker, especially if it's a woman."
"Could I learn?"
"Anyone who can make tools the way you did can certainly learn to make them this way."
He answered her question in a slightly different sense than she meant it. She knew she was capable of learning – she had been trying to assure herself that it was allowable. But his answer made her stop and think.
"No… I don't think so."
"Of course you can learn."
"I know I can learn, Jondalar, but not anyone who makes tools the Clan way can learn to make them your way. Some could, I think Droog could, but anything new is difficult for them. They learn from their memories."
He thought at first she was joking, but she was serious. Could she be right? Given the opportunity, would fla… Clan toolmakers be, not unwilling, but unable to learn?
Then it occurred to him that he would not have thought them capable of making tools at all not so long ago. They made tools, they communicated, and they took in a strange orphan child. He had learned more about flatheads in the past few days than anyone knew, except Ayla. It could be useful to know more about them, perhaps. There seemed to be more to them than anyone realized.
Thinking about flatheads suddenly made him recall the day before, and an unexpected flush of embarrassment rushed him. With their concentration on toolmaking, he had forgotten. He had been looking at the woman, but not really seeing her golden braids shining in the sunlight, offering marked contrast to her deep rich tan; or her eyes, blue gray and clear, like the translucent color of fine flint.
O Mother, she was beautiful! He became acutely conscious of her sitting so close to him and felt a movement in his groin. He could not have kept his sudden shift of interest out of his eyes if he'd tried. And he didn't try.
Ayla felt his change in mood; it washed over her, caught her unprepared. How could anyone's eyes be so blue? Not the sky, not the blue gentians growing in the mountain meadows near the clan's cave were so deeply, vibrantly hued. She could feel that… that feeling starting. Her body tingled, ached for him to touch her. She was leaning forward, pulled, drawn to him, and only with supreme effort of will did she close her eyes and pull away.
Why does he look at me that way when I'm… abomination? When he can't touch me without jerking away as if he were burned? Her heart was pounding; she was panting as though she had been running, and she tried to slow her breaths.
She heard him get up before she opened her eyes. The leather lap cover had been flung aside and his carefully wrought blades were scattered. She watched him walking away with stiff movements, his shoulders hunched, until he was around the wall. He seemed miserable, as miserable as she was.
Once he cleared the wall, Jondalar broke into a run. He raced down the field until his pumping legs ached and his breath raled in ragged sobs; then he slowed and jogged to a halt, heaving great gasps.
You stupid fool, what does it take to convince you? Just because she's decent enough to let you get some supplies together doesn't mean she wants any part of you… particularly that part! Yesterday, she was hurt and offended because you didn't… That was before you ruined it for yourself!