The Valley Of Horses

28

"I don't think Whinney could have hauled them both back here if we hadn't left the heads behind," Ayla said. "It was a good idea." She and Jondalar dragged the carcass of the bull off the travois and onto the ledge. "There is so much meat! It will take a long time to cut it up. We should start right away."

"They'll keep for a while, Ayla." His smile and his eyes filled her with warmth. "I think your First Rites are more important. I'll help you take the harness off Whinney – then I'm going for a swim. I'm sweaty, and bloody."

"Jondalar…" Ayla hesitated. She was feeling excited, and yet shy. "It is a ceremony, this First Rites?"

"Yes, it is a ceremony."

"Iza taught me to prepare myself for ceremonies. Is there a… preparation for this ceremony?"

"Usually older women help young women prepare. I don't know what they say or do. I think you should do whatever is appropriate for you."

"Then I will find the soaproot and purify myself, the way Iza taught me. I will wait until you are through with your swim. I should be alone when I prepare." She flushed and looked down.

She seems so young, and shy, he thought. Just like most young women at First Rites. He felt the familiar surge of tenderness and excitement. Even her preparations were right. He lifted her chin and kissed her again, then firmly moved himself away. "I'd like a little soaproot myself."

"I'll get some for you," she said.

He was grinning as he walked along the stream behind Ayla, and after she dug the soaproot and went back up to the cave, he flung himself into the water with a tremendous splash, feeling better about himself than he had for a long time. He pounded the soapy foam from the roots, rubbed it on his body, then took off the leather thong and worked it into his hair. Sand usually worked well enough, but soaproot was better.

He dove into the water and sworn upstream, almost as far as the falls. When he returned to the beach, he put his breechclout on and hurried up to the cave. A roast was on, smelling delicious. He was so relaxed and happy, he couldn't believe it.

"I'm glad you're back. It will take some time to purify myself properly, and I didn't want it to get too late." She picked up a bowl of steaming liquid with horsetail ferns in it, for her hair, and a newly cured skin for a fresh wrap.

"Take as long as you need," he said, kissing her lightly.

She started down, then stopped and turned around. "I like that mouth on mouth, Jondalar. That kiss," she said.

"I hope you like the rest," he said after she left.

He walked around the cave, seeing everything with new eyes. He checked the haunch of roasting bison and turned the spit, noticed she had wrapped some roots in leaves and put them near coals, and then found the hot tea she had ready for him. She must have dug the roots while I was swimming, he thought.

He saw his sleeping furs on the other side of the fireplace, frowned, and then, with great delight, picked them up and brought them back to the empty place beside Ayla's. After straightening them, he went back for the bundle that held his tools, then remembered the donii he had begun to carve. He sat on the mat that had kept his sleeping furs oft the ground and opened the deerskin-wrapped package.

He examined the piece of mammoth-tusk ivory he had started to shape into a female figure and decided to finish it. Maybe he wasn't the best of carvers, but it didn't seem right to have one of the Mother's most important ceremonies without a donii. He picked out a few carving burins and took the ivory outside.

He sat at the edge, carving, shaping, sculpting, but he realized the ivory was not turning out to be ample and motherly. It was taking on the shape of a young woman. The hair that he had intended to resemble the style of the ancient donii he had given away – a ridged form covering the face as well as the back – was suggestive of braids, tight braids all over the head, except for the face. The face was blank. No face was ever carved on a donii, who could bear to look upon the face of the Mother? Who could know it? She was all women, and none.

He stopped carving and looked upstream and then down, hoping he might see her, though she said she wanted to be alone. Could he bring her Pleasure? he wondered. He had never doubted himself when he was called upon for First Rites at Summer Meetings, but those young women understood the customs and knew what to expect. They had older women to explain it to them.

Should I try to explain? No, you don't know what to say, Jondalar. Just show her. She will let you know if she doesn't like anything. That's one of her most appealing qualities, her honesty. No coy little ways. It's refreshing.

What would it be like to show the Mother's Gift of Pleasure to a woman with no pretenses? Who would neither hold back nor feign enjoyment?

Why should she be any different from any other woman at First Rites? Because she's not like any other woman at First Rites. She has been opened, with great pain. What if you can't overcome that terrible beginning? What if she can't enjoy the Pleasures, what if you can't make her feel them? I wish there was some way to make her forget. If I could draw her to me, overcome her resistance and capture her spirit.

Capture her spirit?

He looked at the figure in his hand, and suddenly his mind was racing. Why did they grave the image of an animal on a weapon, or on the Sacred Walls? To approach the mother-spirit of it, to overcome her resistance and capture the essence.

Don't be ridiculous, Jondalar. You can't capture Ayla's spirit that way. It wouldn't be right, no one puts a face on a donii. Humans were never pictured – a likeness might capture a spirit's essence. But to whom would it be captive?

No one should hold another person's spirit captive. Give the donii to her! She'd have her spirit back then, wouldn't she? If you kept it just for a while, then gave it to her… afterward.

If you put her face on it, would it turn her into a donii? You almost think she is one, with her healing, and her magic way with animals. If she's a donii, she might decide to capture your spirit. Would that be so bad?

You want a piece to stay with you, Jondalar. The piece of the spirit that always stays in the hands of the maker. You want that part of her, don't you?

O Great Mother, tell me, would it be such a terrible thing to do? To put her face on a donii?

He stared at the small ivory figure he had carved. Then he took up a burin and began to carve the shape of a face, a familiar face.

When it was done, he held the ivory figurine up and turned it around slowly. A real carver might have done it better, but it wasn't bad. It resembled Ayla, but more in the feeling than the actual likeness; his feeling of her. He went back inside the cave and tried to think of a place to put it. The donii should be nearby, but he didn't want her to see it, yet. He saw a bundle of leather wrapped up near the wall by her bed, and he tucked the ivory figure in a flap of it.

He went back out and looked off the far edge. What's taking her so long? He looked over the two bison that were laid out side by side. They would keep. The spears and spear throwers were leaning against the stone wall near the entrance. He picked them up and carried them into the cave, and then he heard the sound of gravel pattering on stone. He turned around.

Ayla adjusted the tie on her new wrap, put her amulet round her neck, and pushed her hair, just brushed with teasel but not quite dry, back from her face. Picking up her soiled wrap, she started up the path. She was nervous, and excited.

She had an idea of what Jondalar meant by First Rites, but she was touched because of his desire to do it for her and share it with her. She didn't think the ceremony would be too bad – even Broud hadn't hurt after the first few times. If men gave the signal to women they liked, did it mean Jondalar had grown to care?

As she neared the top, Ayla was startled out of her thoughts by a tawny blur of swift motion.

"Stay back!" Jondalar shouted. "Stay back, Ayla! It's a cave lion!"

He was at the mouth of the cave, a spear in his hand poised for throwing at a huge cat, crouched, ready to spring, a deep snarl rumbling in his throat.

"No, Jondalar!" Ayla screamed, rushing between them. "No!"

"Ayla don't! O Mother, stop her!" the man cried when she jumped in front of him, in the path of the charging lion.

The woman made a sharp, imperative motion, and in the guttural language of the Clan, shouted, "Stop!"

The huge rufous-maned cave lion, with a wrenching twist, pulled his leap short and landed at the woman's feet. Then he rubbed his massive head against her leg. Jondalar was thunderstruck.

"Baby! Oh, Baby. You came back," Ayla said in motions, and without hesitation, without the least fear, she wrapped her arms around the huge lion's neck.

Baby knocked her over, as gently as he could, and Jondalar watched with mouth agape while the biggest cave lion he had ever seen draped forepaws around the woman in the closest equivalent to an embrace he could imagine a lion to be capable of. The feline lapped salty tears from the woman's face with a tongue that rasped it raw.

"That's enough, Baby," she said, sitting up, "or I won't have a face left."

She found the places behind his ears and around his mane that he loved to have scratched. Baby rolled over on his back to bare his throat to her ministrations, growling a deep rumble of contentment.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again, Baby," she said when she stopped and the cat rolled over. He was bigger than she remembered, and though a bit thin, seemed healthy. He had scars she hadn't seen before, and she thought he might be fighting for territory, and winning. It filled her with pride. Then Baby noticed Jondalar again, and snarled.

"Don't snarl at him! That's the man you brought me. You have a mate… I think you must have many by now." The lion got up, turned his back to the man, and padded toward the bison.

"Is it all right if we give him one?" she called over to Jondalar. "We really have too much."

He still held the spear in his hand, standing in the mouth of the cave, stunned. He tried to answer, but only a squeak came out. Then he recovered his voice. "All right? You're asking me if it's all right? Give him both of them. Give him anything he wants!"

"Baby doesn't need both of them." Ayla used the word for his name in the language Jondalar didn't know, but he guessed it was a name. "No, Baby! Don't take the heifer," she said in sounds and gestures the man still didn't quite perceive as language, but elicited a gasp from him when she took one bison away from the lion and shoved him toward the other. He clamped huge jaws around the severed neck of the young bull and pulled it away from the edge. Then, getting a better grip, he started down the familiar path.

"I'll be right back, Jondalar," she said. "Whinney and Racer might be down there, and I don't want Baby to scare the colt."

Jondalar watched the woman follow behind the lion until she was out of sight. She appeared again on the valley side of the wall, walking casually beside the lion who was dragging the bison under his body between his legs.

When they reached the large boulder, Ayla stopped and hugged the lion again. Baby dropped the bison, and Jondalar shook his head in disbelief when he saw the woman climb on the fierce predator's back. She lifted an arm and flung it forward, and held on to the rufous mane while the huge feline leaped forward. He raced off with all his great speed, Ayla clinging tight, her hair streaming behind her. Then he slowed and turned back to the stone.

He got a grip on the young bison again and dragged it down the valley. Ayla stayed by the large rock, watching after him. Far down the field, the lion dropped the bull once more. He began a series of speaking grunts, his familiar hnga, hnga, and built up to a roar so loud that it shook Jondalar's bones.

When the cave lion was gone, Jondalar took a deep breath and leaned against the wall, feeling weak. He was awestruck, and a little fearful. What is this woman? he thought. What kind of magic does she have? Birds, maybe. Even horses. But a cave lion? The biggest cave lion he'd ever seen?

Was she a… donii? Who but the Mother could make animals do her bidding? What about her healing powers? Or her phenomenal ability to speak so well already? For all that she had an unusual accent, she had learned most of his Mamutoi, and some words in Sharamudoi. Was she an aspect of the Mother?

He heard her coming up the path and felt a shiver of fear. He half expected her to declare she was the Great Earth Mother incarnate, and he would have believed it. He saw a woman with disheveled hair and tears rolling down her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, tenderness overcoming his imagined fears.

"Why do I have to lose my babies?" she sobbed.

He paled. Her babies? That lion was her baby? With a shock, he remembered a feeling of the Mother crying, the Mother of all.

"Your babies?"

"First Durc, and then Baby."

"Is that a name for the lion?"

"Baby? It means little one, infant," she answered, trying to translate.

"Little one!" he snorted. "That's the biggest cave lion I've ever seen!"

"I know." A smile of maternal pride gleamed through her tears. "I always made sure he had enough to eat, not like pride cubs. But when I found him, he was little. I called him Baby and never got around to naming him anything else."

"You found him?" Jondalar asked, still hesitant.

"He'd been left for dead. I think a deer trampled him. I was chasing them into my pit trap. Brun used to let me bring little animals into the cave sometimes, if they were hurt and needed my help, but never meat-eating animals. I wasn't going to pick up that baby cave lion, but then the hyenas went after him. I chased them away with my sling and brought him back."

Ayla's eyes took on a faraway look and her mouth assumed a lopsided grin. "Baby was so funny when he was little, always making me laugh. But it took a lot of time to hunt for him until the second winter, when we learned to hunt together. All of us, Whinney, too. I haven't seen Baby since…" She suddenly realized when.

"Oh, Jondalar, I am so sorry. Baby is the lion that killed your brother. But if it had been any other lion, I would not have been able to get you away from him."

"You are a donii!" Jondalar exclaimed. "I saw you in my dream! I thought a donii had come to take me to the next world, but she made the lion leave instead."

"You must have revived a little, Jondalar. Then when I moved you, you probably passed out from the pain. I had to get you away in a hurry. I knew Baby wouldn't hurt me – he's a little rough at times, but he doesn't mean to be. He can't help it. But I didn't know when his lioness would be back."

The man was shaking his head in wonder and disbelief. "Did you really hunt with that lion?"

"It was the only way I could keep him fed. At first, before he was able to make a kill himself, he'd bring an animal down and I'd ride up on Whinney and kill it with a spear. I didn't know about throwing spears then. When Baby got big enough to make the kill, sometimes I'd take a piece before he chewed it up, or else I'd want to save the hide…"

"So you pushed him away, like that bison? Don't you know it's dangerous to take meat away from a lion? I've seen one kill its own cub for that!"

"So have I. But Baby is different, Jondalar. He wasn't raised in a pride. He grew up here, with Whinney and me. We hunted together – he's used to sharing with me. I'm glad he found a lioness, though, so he can live like a lion. Whinney went back to a herd for a while, but she wasn't happy and came back…"

Ayla shook her head and looked down. "That's not true. I want to believe it. I think she was happy with her herd and her stallion. I was not happy without her. I am so glad she was willing to come back after her stallion died."

Ayla picked up the soiled wrap and headed into the cave. Jondalar, noticing he was still holding the spear, leaned it against the wall and followed. Ayla was pensive. Baby's return had evoked so many memories. She looked at the bison roast, turned the spit, and stirred up the coals. Then she poured water into a cooking basket from the large onager-stomach waterbag that was hanging on a post, and she put some cooking stones in the fire to heat.

Jondalar just watched her, still dazed by the cave lion's visit. It had been shock enough to see the lion leap down to the ledge, but the way Ayla had stepped out in front of him and stopped the massive predator… no one would believe it.

As he stared, he had the feeling something was different about her. Then he noticed her hair was down. He remembered the first time he saw her with her hair free, gleaming golden in the sun. She had come up from the beach, and he had seen her, all of her, for the first time with her hair down and her magnificent body.

"…good to see Baby again. Those bison must have been in his territory. He probably scented the kill, then picked up our trail. He was surprised to see you. I don't know if he remembered you. How did you get trapped in that blind canyon?"

"Wha…? I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I was wondering how you and your brother got trapped in that canyon with Baby," she said, looking up. Luminous violet eyes were watching her, sending a flush to her face.

With an effort he focused his mind on her question. "We were stalking a deer. Thonolan killed it, but a lioness had been after the same one. She dragged it away and Thonolan went after it. I told him to let her have it, but he wouldn't listen. We saw the lioness go into the cave, and then leave. Thonolan thought he could get the spear back, and some of the meat before she returned. The lion had other ideas."

Jondalar closed his eyes for a moment. "I can't blame him. It was stupid to go after that lioness, but I couldn't stop him. He was always reckless, but after Jetamio died, he was more than reckless. He wanted to die. I suppose I shouldn't have gone after him, either."

Ayla knew he still sorrowed for his brother and changed the subject. "I didn't see Whinney in the field. She must be out on the steppes with Racer. She's been going there lately. The way you fixed those straps around Racer's head worked well, but I don't know if it was necessary to keep him tied to Whinney."

"The rope was too long. I didn't think it might be caught in a bush. It held them, though. That might be something to remember, if you want them to stay someplace. At least Racer. Does Whinney always do what you want?"

"I guess she does, but it's more like she wants to. She knows what I want, and she does it. Baby just takes me where he wants to go, but he goes so fast." Her eyes sparkled with the memory of her recent ride. It was always a thrill to ride the lion.

Jondalar recalled her clinging to the back of the cave lion, her hair, more golden than the reddish mane, flying in the wind. Watching her had made him afraid for her, but it was exciting – as she was. So wild and free, so beautiful…

"You're an exciting woman, Ayla," he said. His eyes carried his conviction.

"Exciting? Exciting is… the spear thrower, or riding fast on Whinney… or Baby, is that right?" She was flustered.

"Right. And so is Ayla exciting, to me… and beautiful."

"Jondalar, you are making a joke. A flower is beautiful or the sky when the sun drops over the edge. I am not beautiful."

"Can't a woman be beautiful?"

She turned aside from the intensity of his look. "I… I don't know. But I am not beautiful. I am… big and ugly."

Jondalar got up and, taking her hand, urged her up too. "Now, who is bigger?"

He was overpowering standing so close. He had shaved his face again, she noticed. The short beard hairs could only be seen up close. She wanted to touch his rough-smooth face, and his eyes made her feel they could reach inside her.

"You are," she said, softly.

"Then you are not too big, are you? And you are not ugly, Ayla." He smiled, but she only knew it because his eyes showed it. "It's funny, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen thinks she's ugly."

Her ears heard, but she was too lost in the eyes that held her, too moved by her body's response, to notice his words. She saw him bend closer, then put his mouth on hers, and she felt him put his arms around her and draw her close.

"Jondalar," she breathed. "I like that… mouth on mouth."

"Kiss," he said. "I think it's time, Ayla." He took her hand and led her toward the sleeping furs.

"Time?"

"First Rites," he said.

They sat down on the furs. "What kind of ceremony is it?"

"It is the ceremony that makes a woman. I can't tell you all about it. The older women tell a girl what to expect and that it may hurt, but that it is necessary to open the passage for her to become a woman. They choose the man for it. Men want to be chosen, but some are afraid."

"Why are they afraid?"

"They're afraid they will hurt a woman, afraid they will be clumsy, afraid they won't be able, that their woman-maker won't rise."

"That means a man's organ? It has so many names."

He thought of all the names, many vulgar or humorous. "Yes, it has many names."

"What is the real name?"

"Manhood, I guess," he said after a moment's thought, "the same as for a man, but 'woman-maker' is another."

"What happens if the manhood won't rise?"

"Another man has to be brought in – it's very embarrassing. But most men want to be chosen for a woman's first time."

"Do you like being chosen?"

"Yes."

"Are you chosen often?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Jondalar smiled and wondered if all her questions were the result of curiosity or nervousness. "I think because I like it. A woman's first time is special to me."

"Jondalar, how can we have a ceremony of First Rites? I am past my first time, I am already open."

"I know, but there is more to First Rites than just opening."

"I don't understand. What more can there be?"

He smiled again, then leaned closer and put his mouth on hers. She leaned toward him, but was startled when his mouth opened and she felt his tongue try to reach inside her mouth. She backed off.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Don't you like it?" His forehead creased with consternation.

"I don't know."

"Do you want to try again and see?" Slow down, he said to himself. Don't rush this. "Why don't you lie back and relax?"

He pushed her with gentle pressure, then stretched out beside her, resting on one elbow. He looked down at her, then put his mouth on hers again. He waited until her tension was gone, then lightly flicked his tongue along her lips. He lifted up and saw her mouth smiling and her eyes closed. When she opened them, he bent to kiss her again. She strained to reach him. He kissed with more pressure, and an open mouth. When his tongue sought entrance, she opened her mouth to receive it.

"Yes," she said. "I think I like it."

Jondalar grinned. She was questioning, tasting, testing, and he was pleased she had not found him wanting.

"What now?" she asked.

"More of the same?"

"All right."

He kissed her again, gently exploring her lips, and the roof of her mouth, and under her tongue. Then his lips traced her jaw. He found her ear, breathed his warm breath in it, nibbled her lobe, and then covered her throat with kisses and his questing tongue. Then he returned to her mouth again.

"Why does that make me feel like a fever, and shivers?" she said. "Not like a sickness, nice shivers."

"You don't have to be a medicine woman now, it's not a sickness," he said. Then after a moment, "If you're warm, why don't you open your wrap, Ayla?"

"That's all right. I'm not that warm."

"Would you mind if I open your wrap?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to." He kissed her again, trying to undo the knot in the thong that held her wrap closed. He was not successful and expected more discussion from her about it.

"I'll open it," she whispered, when he lifted his mouth from hers. Deftly, she untied the knot, then arched up to unwind the thong. The leather wrap fell away, and Jondalar caught his breath.

"Oh, woman!" His voice was husky with need, and his loins tightened. "Ayla, Doni, what a woman!" He kissed her open mouth fiercely, then buried his face in her neck and sucked warmth to the surface. Breathing hard, he backed off and saw the red mark he had made. He took a deep breath, reaching for control.

"Is anything wrong?" Ayla asked, with a worried frown.

"Only that I want you too much. I want to make it right for you, but I don't know if I can. You are… so beautiful, so much woman."

Her frown smoothed to a smile. "Whatever you do will be right, Jondalar."

He kissed her again, more gently, wanting more than ever to give her Pleasure. He caressed the side of her body, feeling the fullness of her breast, the dip of her waist, the smooth curve of her hip, the taut muscle of her thigh. She quivered under his touch. His hand brushed the golden curls of her mound, and across her stomach to the turgid swelling of her breast, and felt her nipple harden in his palm. He kissed the tiny scar at the base of her throat; then he sought the other breast and sucked her nipple into his mouth.

"It doesn't feel the same as a baby," she said.

It broke the tension. Jondalar sat up, laughing. "You are not supposed to be analyzing this, Ayla."

"Well, it doesn't feel the same as when a baby sucks and I don't know why. I don't know why a man wants to suckle like a baby at all," she said, feeling a bit defensive.

"Don't you want me to? I won't if you don't like it."

"I didn't say I don't like it. It feels good when a baby sucks. It doesn't feel the same when you do it, but it feels good. I feel it all the way down inside me. A baby doesn't make you feel that way inside."

"That's why a man does it, to make a woman feel that way, and to make himself feel that way. That's why I want to touch you, to give you Pleasure, and me too. It is the Mother's Gift of Pleasure to Her children. She created us to know this Pleasure, and we honor Her when we accept Her Gift. Will you let me give you Pleasure, Ayla?"

He was looking at her. Her golden hair, tousled on the fur, framed her face. Her dilated eyes, deep and soft, glowed with hidden fire, and seemed full, as though they might spill over. Her mouth trembled when she opened it to answer; she nodded instead.

He kissed one eye closed, and then the other, and saw a tear. He tasted the salty drop with the tip of his tongue. She opened her eyes and smiled. He kissed the tip of her nose, then her mouth, then each nipple. Then he got up.

She watched him walk to the hearth and move the spitted roast away from the fire and push the leaf-wrapped roots away from the coals. She waited, beyond thinking, only anticipating she did not know what. He had made her feel more than she ever imagined her body was capable of feeling, yet had awakened an inexpressible yearning.

He filled a cup with water and brought it back. "I don't want anything to interrupt us," he said, "and I thought you might want a drink of water."

She shook her head. He took a sip and put the cup down, then untied the cord of his breechclout and stood looking at her with his prodigious manhood extended. Her eyes held only trust and desire, none of the fear that his size often inspired in younger women, and some not so young, when they first saw him.

He lay down beside her, filling his eyes with the sight of her. Her hair, soft, rich, luxuriant; her eyes, brimming and expectant; her magnificent body; all of this beautiful woman, waiting for his touch, waiting for him to awaken in her those feelings he knew were there. He wanted it to last, this first awareness for her. He felt more excited than he ever had at the First Rites for a newly fledged woman. Ayla did not know what to expect; no one had described it in vivid, expanded detail. She had only been abused.

O Doni, help me do it right, he thought, feeling for the moment that he was undertaking some awesome responsibility, rather than a joyful Pleasure.

Ayla lay still, not moving a muscle yet quivering. She felt as though she had been waiting forever for something she could not name, but which he could give. His eyes alone could touch inside her; she could not explain the pulsing, throbbing delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, but she ached for more. She felt unfinished, incomplete. Until he gave her the taste, she hadn't known her hunger, but once aroused, it had to be satisfied.

When his eyes had had their fill, he closed them and kissed her once more. Her mouth was parted, waiting. She drew his seeking tongue in, and tentatively experimented with her own. He pulled up and smiled encouragement. He brought a rich lustrous strand of her hair to his lips, then rubbed his face in a thick, soft pile of her golden crown. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, wanting to know all of her.

He found her ear, and his warm breath sent shivers of delight through her once more. He nibbled her earlobe, then suckled it. He found the tender nerves of her neck and throat that excited chills in internal places never touched. His large, expressive, sensitive hands explored her, felt the silky texture of her hair, cupped her cheek and jaw, traced the contours of her shoulder and arm. When he reached her hand, he brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm, stroked each finger, then followed the inside curve of her arm.

Her eyes were closed, giving in to the sensation with rhythmic surges. His warm mouth found the scar in the hollow of her throat, then followed the path between her breasts and curved underneath one. He described decreasing circles with his tongue and felt the texture of her skin change when he reached the areola. She gasped when he drew her nipple into his mouth, and he felt a flush of heat throbbing in his loins.

His hand matched his tongue's movement with her other breast, and his fingers found her nipple hardened and erect. He suckled gently at first, but when she pushed herself up to him, he increased the suction. She breathed hard, moaned softly. His breath matched her wanting; he wasn't sure he could wait. He stopped then, to look at her again. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.

He wanted all of her, all at once. He took her mouth, drew her tongue into his. When he released it, she drew in his, following his example, and felt the warm inside of his. He found her throat again, and drew wet circles around her other full breast until he reached the nipple. She pushed herself up to him, wanting, and shuddered when he answered with a deep pull.

His hand caressed her stomach, her hip, her leg, then reached for her inner thigh. Her firm muscles rippled as she tensed a moment, then she separated her legs. He cupped his hand over her mound of dark gold curls and felt a sudden damp warmth. The answering jolt in his groin caught him by surprise. He stayed as he was, fighting for control, and almost lost it when he felt another surge of wetness in his hand.

His mouth left her nipple and circled her stomach and her navel. When he reached her mound, he looked up at her. She was breathing in mewing gasps, her back arched and tensed with anticipation. She was ready. He kissed the top of her mound, felt crinkly hair, and inched lower. She was quivering, and when his tongue found the top of her narrow slot, she sprang up with a cry, then lay back moaning.

His manhood was throbbing eagerly, impatiently, as he shifted position to slide down between her legs. Then he spread open her folds and took a long, loving taste. She could not hear her own sounds as she lost herself to the flood of exquisite sensations coursing through her as his tongue explored every fold, every ridge.

He concentrated on her to keep his own demanding need in check, found the nodule that was her small but erect center of delight, and moved it firmly and rapidly. He feared he had reached the limit of his self-control when she writhed and sobbed with an ecstasy unknown before. With two long fingers, he entered her moist passage and applied pressure up, from inside.

Suddenly she arched her back and cried out, and he tasted a new wetness. Her hands clenched and unclenched convulsively in unconscious beckoning motions that matched her spasmodic breaths.

"Jondalar," she cried out to him. "Oh, Jondalar, I need… need you… need something…"

He was on his knees, gritting his teeth in an effort to hold back, trying to enter her carefully. "I'm trying… to be easy," he said, almost painfully.

"It… won't hurt me, Jondalar…"

It was true! It wasn't really her first time. As she arched up to receive him, he let himself enter. There was no blockage. He pressed farther, expecting to find her barrier, but he felt himself drawn in, felt her warm, moist depths opening and enfolding him until, to his wonder, she embraced him fully. He drew back and plunged deeply into her again. She wrapped legs around him to pull him into her. He withdrew again, and, as he penetrated once more, he felt her wondrous throbbing passage caress his full length. It was more than he could bear. He drove in again, and again, with unrestrained abandon, for once giving in entirely to his own need.

"Ayla!… Ayla!… Ayla!" he cried out.

The tension was reaching its peak. He could feel it gathering in his loins. He drew back once more. Ayla raised up to him with every nerve and muscle taut. He surged into her, reveling in the sheer sensual pleasure of burying his full proud manhood completely in her eager warmth. They strained together, Ayla cried his name, and, giving her his final fraction, Jondalar filled her.

For an eternal instant, his deeper, throatier cries rose in harmony with her breathless sobs repeating his name as paroxysms of inexpressible pleasure shuddered through them. Then, with exquisite release, he collapsed on top of her.

For a long moment, only their breathing could be heard. They could not move. They had given all to each other, every fiber to their shared experience. After a time, they didn't want to move, didn't want it to end, though they knew it was over. It had been Ayla's awakening; she had never known the pleasures a man could give her. Jondalar knew his pleasure would be to awaken her, but she had given him an unexpected surprise, adding immeasurably to his excitement.

Only few women had depth enough to take in all of him; he had learned to control his penetration to suit and did it with sensitivity and skill. It would never be quite the same again – but to enjoy the excitement of First Rites, and the rare and glorious release of full penetration at the same time, was unbelievable.

He always did put forth greater efforts for First Rites; there was something about the ceremony that brought out the best in him. His care and concern were genuine, his efforts were to please the woman, and his satisfaction came from her enjoyment as much as his own. But Ayla had pleased him, satisfied him beyond his wildest fantasy. Not ever had he felt so profoundly fulfilled. For a moment, it seemed, they had become one.

"I must be getting heavy," he said, pulling himself up to partially support his weight on an elbow.

"No," she said in a soft voice. "You're not heavy at all. I don't think I ever want you to get up."

He bent down to nuzzle an ear and kiss her neck. "I don't want to get up either, but I think I should." He disengaged himself slowly, then lay down beside her, fitting an arm under her so that her head rested in the hollow beneath his shoulder.

Ayla was dreamily content, completely relaxed, and acutely aware of Jondalar. She felt his arm around her, his fingers caressing her lightly, the play of pectoral muscles under her cheek; she could hear his heartbeat, or perhaps her own, in her ear; she smelled the warm musky scent of his skin, and their Pleasures. And she had never felt so cared for or so coddled.

"Jondalar," she said after a while, "how do you know what to do? I didn't know those feelings were in me. How did you?"

"Someone showed me, taught me, helped me to know what a woman needs."

"Who?"

She felt his muscles tense, detected a change in the tone of his voice.

"It's customary for older, more experienced women to teach young men."

"You mean like First Rites?"

"Not quite. It's more informal. When young men start coming into their heat, the women always know. One, or more, who understands he is nervous and unsure of himself will be there for him, and will help him over it. But it's not a ceremony."

"In the Clan, when a boy makes his first kill – on a real hunt, not just little animals – then he is a man and has a manhood ceremony. Coming into his heat doesn't matter. It's hunting that makes him a man. That's when he must assume adult responsibilities."

"Hunting is important, but some men never hunt. They have other skills. I suppose I wouldn't have to hunt if I didn't want to. I could make tools and trade them for meat or skins, or whatever I wanted. Most men hunt, though, and a boy's first kill is very special."

Jondalar's voice took on the warm tones of memory. "There is no real ceremony, but his kill is distributed to everyone in the Cave – he doesn't eat any of it. When he walks by, they remark to each other so he can hear, how big and wonderful his kill is, and how tender and delicious. The men invite him to join them for gaming or talking. The women treat him like a man instead of a boy, and make friendly jokes with him. Almost any woman will make herself available to him, if he's old enough and that's what he wants. A first kill makes him feel very much a man."

"But no manhood ceremony?"

"Each time a man makes a woman, opens her, lets the life force flow into her, he reaffirms his manhood. That's why his tool, his manhood, is called woman-maker."

"It might do more than make a woman. It might start a baby."

"Ayla, the Great Earth Mother blesses a woman with children. She brings them into the world and to a man's hearth. Doni created men to help her, to provide for her when she is heavy with child, or nursing and caring for an infant. And to make her a woman. I can't explain it any better. Maybe Zelandoni can."

Maybe he's right, Ayla thought, snuggling down beside him. But if he isn't, a baby could be growing in me now. She smiled. A baby like Durc, to cuddle and nurse, and take care of, a baby that would be part Jondalar.

But who will help me when he's gone? she thought with a stab of anguish. She recalled her difficult previous pregnancy, her brush with death during delivery. Without Iza, I wouldn't be alive. And if I did manage to have a baby alone, how could I hunt and take care of a baby? What if I got hurt, or killed? Who would take care of my baby then? He'd die, all alone.

I can't have another baby now! She bolted up. What if one has been started? What should I do? Iza's medicine! Tansy or mistletoe, or… not mistletoe. That only grows on oak, and there is no oak here. But there are several plants that will work – I'll have to think about it. It could be dangerous, but better to lose the baby now, than lose him to some hyena after he's born.

"Is anything wrong, Ayla?" Jondalar asked, reaching up to cup a full firm breast, because he knew he could and that made him want to.

She leaned into his hand, remembering his touch. "No, nothing is wrong."

He smiled, recalled his deep satisfaction, and felt renewed stirrings. Soon, he thought I think she has Haduma's touch!

She saw warmth and desire in his blue eyes. Maybe he'll want to make Pleasures with me again, Ayla thought, smiling back. Then her smile faded. If a baby hasn't started, and we do Pleasures again, one could start. Maybe I should take Iza's secret medicine, the one she said not to mention to anyone.

She remembered when Iza told her about the plants – golden thread and root of antelope sage – that had such potent magic, they could add strength to a woman's totem to fight off the man's impregnating essences, and prevent life from starting. Ayla had just learned she was pregnant. Iza had not told her about the medicine before – no one thought she would ever have a baby, and it hadn't come up in her training. Strong totem or not, I had a baby, and I might again. I don't know if it's spirits or men, but the medicine worked for Iza, and I think I better take it, or I may have to take something else to lose one.

I wish I didn't have to, I wish I could keep it. I would like to have a baby from Jondalar. Her smile was so tender and inviting that he reached up and pulled her down on him. The amulet, hanging around her neck, banged his nose.

"Oh, Jondalar! Did that hurt?"

"What do you have in that thing? It must be full of rocks!" he said, sitting up and rubbing his nose. "What is it?"

"It is… for my totem spirit, so he can find me. It holds the part of my spirit he recognizes. When he has given me signs, I keep them in there, too. Everyone in the Clan has one. Creb said if I lose it, I will die."

"It's a charm, or an amulet," he said. "Your Clan does understand the mysteries of the spirit world. The more I learn about them, the more like people they seem, though not like any I know." His eyes filled with contrition. "Ayla, it was my ignorance that made me behave as I did when I first understood who you meant by Clan. It was shameful, and I'm sorry."

"Yes, it was shameful, but I am not angry or hurt anymore. You have made me feel… I want to make a courtesy, too. For today, for First Rites, I want to say… thank you."

He grinned. "I don't think anyone ever thanked me before." The grin left, but a smile lingered though his eyes were serious. "If anyone should say it, I should. Thank you, Ayla. You don't know what an experience you gave me. It hasn't been that gratifying for me since…" He stopped and she saw a frown of pain. "…since Zolena."

"Who is Zolena?"

"Zolena is no more. She was a woman I knew when I was young." He lay back down and stared up at the roof of the cave, silent for so long that Ayla did not think he would say any more. Then, to himself more than her, he began speaking.

"She was beautiful then. All the men talked about her, and all the boys thought about her, but none more than I, even before the donii came to me in my sleep. The night my donii came, she came as Zolena, and when I woke, my sleeping furs were full of my essence, and my head full of Zolena.

"I remember following her, or finding a place to wait where I could watch her. I begged the Mother for her. But I couldn't believe it when she came to me. It could have been any one of the women, but the only one I wanted was Zolena – oh, how I wanted her – and she came to me.

"First, I just took my pleasure in her. Even then, I was big for my age – in many ways. She taught me how to control, how to use it, and she taught me what a woman needed. I learned I could get pleasure from a woman, even if she wasn't quite deep enough, if I held myself back as long as possible, and made her ready. Then I wouldn't need as much depth, and she could take more.

"With Zolena, I didn't have to worry. Yet, she could make men happy who were smaller – she had ways of control, too. There wasn't a man who didn't want her – and she chose me. After a while, she chose me all the time, though I was hardly more than a boy.

"But there was one man who kept after her, though he knew she didn't want him. It made me angry. When he saw us together, he'd tell her to pick a man for a change. He wasn't as old as Zolena, but older than I. I was bigger, though."

Jondalar closed his eyes, but kept on. "It was so stupid! I shouldn't have done it, it only called attention to us, but he wouldn't let her alone. He made me so furious. One day I hit him, and then I couldn't stop.

"They say it's not good for a young man to be with one woman too much. With more women, there's less chance that he will form an attachment. Young men are supposed to mate young women; older women are only supposed to teach them. They always blame the woman if a young man grows to feel too much for her. But they shouldn't have blamed her. I didn't want any of those other women, I wanted only Zolena.

"Those women seemed so crude then, insensitive, tensing, making fun of the men all the time, especially the young men. Perhaps I was insensitive, too, chasing them away from me, calling them names.

"They're the ones who choose the men for First Rites. All the men want to be chosen – they always talk about it. It's an honor, and it's exciting, but they worry about being too rough, or too hasty, or worse. What good is a man if he can't even open a woman? Anytime a man passes a group of women, they tease."

He shifted his voice to a falsetto and mimicked. "'Here's a handsome one. Would you like me to teach you a thing or two?' Or, 'I haven't been able to teach this one anything, anyone else willing to try?'"

Then in his own voice, "Most men learn to give it back and enjoy the banter as much as the women, but it's hard on young men. Any man passing a group of laughing women wonders if they are laughing at his expense. Zolena wasn't like that. The other women didn't like her much, maybe because the men liked her too much. On any of the Mother's holidays or festivals, she was first choice…

"The man I hit lost several teeth. It's hard on a man that young to lose teeth. He can't chew, and women don't want him. I've been sorry ever since. It was so stupid! My mother made compensation for me, and he moved to another Cave. But he comes to Summer Meetings, and I wince every time I see him.

"Zolena had been talking about serving the Mother. I thought I would be a carver and serve Her in that way. That was when Marthona decided I might have an aptitude for stone working and sent word to Dalanar. Not long afterward, Zolena left to take special training, and Willomar took me to live with the Lanzadonii. Marthona was right. It was best. When I returned after three years, Zolena was no more."

"What happened to her?" Ayla asked, almost afraid to speak.

"Those Who Serve the Mother give up their own identity and take on the identity of the people for whom they intercede. In return, the Mother gives them Gifts unknown to Her ordinary children: Gifts of magic, skill, knowledge – and power. Many who go to Serve never progress beyond acolytes. Of those who receive Her call, only a few are truly talented, but they rise in the ranks of Those Who Serve very quickly.

"Just before I left, Zolena was made High Priestess Zelandoni, First among Those Who Serve the Mother."

Suddenly Jondalar jumped up and saw the scarlet and gold western sky through the cave openings. "It's still daylight I feel like going for a swim," he said, striding quickly out of the cave. Ayla picked up her wrap and long thong and followed him. By the time she reached the beach, he was in the water. She took off her amulet, walked in a few feet, then kicked off. He was far upstream. She met him on his way back.

"How far did you go?" she asked.

"To the falls," he said. "Ayla, I have never told that to anyone before. About Zolena."

"Do you ever see Zolena?"

Jondalar's explosive laugh was bitter. "Not Zolena, Zelandoni. Yes, I've seen her. We are good friends. I have even shared Pleasures with Zelandoni," he said. "But she doesn't choose just me anymore." He started swimming downstream, fast and hard.

Ayla frowned and shook her head, then followed him back to the beach. She slipped her amulet on and tied on her wrap as she trailed him up the path. He was standing by the fireplace looking down at barely glowing coals when she walked in. She made a last adjustment to her wrap, then picked up some wood and fed it to the fire. He was still wet and she saw him shiver. She went to get his sleeping fur.

"The season is changing," she said. "Evenings are cool. Here, you might get a chill."

He held the fur around his shoulders awkwardly. It wasn't right for him, she thought, a fur wrap. And if he's going to leave, he should start before the season turns. She went to her sleeping place and picked up a bundle that was beside the wall.

"Jondalar…?"

He shook his head to bring himself back to the present and smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. When she started to untie the bundle, something fell out. She picked it up.

"What is this?" she asked in tones of frightened wonder. "How did it get here?"

"It's a donii," Jondalar said when he saw the piece of carved ivory.

"A donii?"

"I made it for you, for your First Rites. A donii should always be present at First Rites."

Ayla bent her head to hide a sudden rush of tears. "I don't know what to say, I have never seen anything like this. She is beautiful. She looks real, like a person. Almost like me."

He lifted her chin. "I meant her to look like you, Ayla. A real carver would have done it better… no. A real carver would not have made a donii like this. I'm not sure if I should have. A donii does not usually have a face – the face of the Mother is unknowable. To put your face on that donii may have trapped your spirit there. That's why she is yours, to keep in your possession, my gift to you."

"I wonder why you put your gift here," Ayla said as she finished untying the bundle. "I made this for you."

He shook out the leather, and saw the garments, and his eyes brightened. "Ayla! I didn't know you could do sewing or beadwork," he said, examining the clothing.

"I didn't do the beadwork. I just made new parts for the shirt you were wearing. I took apart the other clothes so I'd know what size and shape to make the pieces, and I looked at the way they were put together so I could see how it was done. I used the sewing awl you gave me – I don't know if I used it right, but it worked."

"It's perfect!" he said, holding the shirt up to himself. He tried on the trousers and then the shirt. "I've been thinking about making clothes for myself that would be more appropriate for traveling. A breechclout is fine for here, but…"

It was out. Spoken aloud. Like the evil ones Creb had talked about, whose power came only from the recognition they were given when their names were spoken aloud, Jondalar's leaving had become a fact. No longer was it a vague thought that would someday come about – it had substance now. And it drew more weight as their thoughts concentrated on it, until an oppressive physical presence seemed to have entered the cave, and would not go away.

Jondalar quickly took the clothes off and folded them into a pile. "Thank you, Ayla. I can't tell you how much these mean. When it gets colder, they will be perfect, but I don't need them yet," he said, and he put the breechclout on.

Ayla nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She felt a pressure in her eyes, and the ivory figurine blurred. She brought it to her breast; she loved it. It had been made with his hands. He called himself a toolmaker, but he could do so much more. His hands were skilled enough to make an image that gave her the same feeling of tenderness she had felt when he made her know what it was to be a woman.

"Thank you," she said, remembering the courtesy.

He frowned. "Don't ever lose it," he said. "With your face on it, and maybe your spirit in it, it might not be safe if someone else found it."

"My amulet holds a part of my spirit and my totem's spirit. Now this donii holds a part of my spirit and your Earth Mother's spirit. Does that make it my amulet, too?"

He hadn't considered that. Was she part of the Mother now? One of Earth's Children? Maybe he shouldn't have tampered with forces beyond his ken. Or had he been an agent of them?

"I don't know, Ayla," he answered. "But don't lose it."

"Jondalar, if you thought it might be dangerous, why did you put my face on this donii?"

He took her hands that were holding the figure. "Because I wanted to capture your spirit, Ayla. Not to keep, I meant to give it back I wanted to give you Pleasure, and I didn't know if I could. I didn't know if you would understand; you were not raised to know Her. I thought putting your face on this might draw you to me."

"You didn't need to put my face on a donii for that. I would have been happy if you had just wanted to relieve your needs with me, before I knew what Pleasures were."

He enfolded her in his arms, donii and all. "No, Ayla. You may have been ready, but I needed to understand that it was your first time, or it would not have been tight."

She was losing herself in his eyes again. His arms tightened and she gave herself up to him, until all she knew was his arms holding her, his hungry mouth on her mouth, his body against hers, and a dizzying, demanding need. She didn't know when he swept her up and moved her away from the fireplace.

Her bed of furs reached up to accept her. She felt him fumble with the knot in her thong, then give up and simply raise her wrap. She opened herself to him eagerly, felt his rigid manhood search, and then find.

Fiercely, almost desperately, he sank his shaft deeply, as though to convince himself again that she was there for him, that he did not have to hold back. She raised to meet him, taking him in, wanting as much as he.

He drew back and plunged again, feeling the tension mount. Urged by the excitement of her total embrace, and the reckless delight of giving in entirely to the force of his passion, he rode the rising surge with furious joy. She met him at every crest, matching him thrust for thrust, arching to guide the pressure of his movement.

But the sensations she felt went beyond the push and pull within her cleft. Each time he filled her, she was conscious only of him; her body – nerves, muscles, sinews – were filled with him. He felt the pulling in his loins building, mounting, surging – then an unbearable crescendo as the pressure broke with a shuddering eruption as he bore down to fill her one last time. She rose to meet his final frantic drive, and the explosion diffused through her body with voluptuous release.