The Land of Painted Caves (26 page)

Even though Whinney and Racer had known him from the time he was a four-week-old pup and had helped to raise him, his underlying scent was still of a carnivore, a meat-eater whose wild cousins often preyed on horses. Wolf had sensed their discomfort when they saw him, probably from their scent of fear, and knew to wait until they were comfortable again before approaching them. He was welcomed to the pack of people and horses that he had imprinted on, the only pack he had known.

About then Jonayla decided it was her turn. She let out a hungry wail. Ayla took her out of her carrying blanket and held her out in front to pass her water on the ground. When she was through, Ayla propped her up on Gray’s back for a moment, holding her with one hand while she straightened out the carrying blanket and exposed a breast with the other hand. Soon the infant was wrapped up again, held close to her mother, happily nursing.

On the way back, they made a detour around the enclosure, knowing that the horses would never go into it again. Ayla thought that she would get rid of the leopard carcass later and she wasn’t sure about the enclosure. At the moment she never wanted to put the horses in one again and would be happy to give the wooden poles and planks to whoever wanted them, for firewood if nothing else. When they reached their lodge, they led the horses around to an area on the back side of the summer dwelling that was used infrequently, where some grass still grew.

“Should we put a halter on them and tie them to a ground stake?” Jondalar said. “It would keep them close by.”

“I think it would upset Whinney, and Racer, after their scare, if they couldn’t run freely. For now I think they will want to stay close, unless something scares them again, and we’d hear them. I think I’m going to leave Wolf out here to guard them, at least for tonight.” She went to the animal and bent down close. “Stay here, Wolf. Stay here and watch Whinney, and Racer and Gray. Stay and guard the horses.” She wasn’t entirely sure if he understood, but when he lowered his hind quarters and looked toward the horses, she thought he might. She pulled out the bone she had tucked away for him and gave it to him.

The small fire they had started inside the shelter had long since gone out, so they started a new one, bringing in more fuel to keep it going. About then, Ayla noticed that the nursing was encouraging Jonayla to generate more than water. She quickly spread out a small pile of soft absorbent cattail fibers, and laid the child’s bare bottom on it.

“Jondalar, would you get the large waterbag and bring me whatever is left in it, so I can clean her up, then go and fill it with fresh water, and our small one, too,” Ayla said.

“She is a smelly little thing,” he said with an adoring smile at the little girl he thought was utterly beautiful.

He found the bowl made of tightly woven osier willow withes with an ocher-stained red cord worked in near the top, which was often used to clean especially dirty messes of various kinds. It was marked with the color so it wouldn’t inadvertently be used for drinking water or cooking. He brought it and the nearly empty waterbag to their hearth, filled the bowl, then took their waterbag, made of the stomach of an ibex, the same one that provided the hide for Jonayla’s carrying blanket, along with the large general one to the entrance. He picked up one of the unlit torches that was nearby, took it to their fireplace to light it, and picking up the waterbags on the way, went out.

Animal stomachs, when thoroughly cleaned and with extra holes at the bottom sewed or tied off, were nearly waterproof and made excellent waterbags. When Jondalar came back with the water, the soiled water bowl was beside the night basket near the door, and Ayla was nursing Jonayla again in hopes of putting her to sleep.

“I suppose I should empty the bowl and the night basket, while I’m at it,” he said, planting the end of the lighted torch in the ground.

“If you want, but hurry,” Ayla said, looking at him with a languorous yet mischievous smile. “I think Jonayla is almost asleep.”

He felt an immediate tightening in his loins and smiled back. He brought the large, heavy waterbag to the main hearth and hung it in its accustomed place, a peg on one of the strong posts that supported the structure, then brought the second one to their sleeping place.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked, as he watched her nurse the baby.

“I wouldn’t mind a little water. I was thinking of making some tea, but I think I’ll wait until later,” she said.

He poured some water in a cup and gave it to her, then went back to the door. He poured the contents of the bowl into the night basket, then picked up the torch and went back outside taking the night basket and soiled bowl with him. Propping the torch in the ground, he dumped the large, malodorous night basket in one of the trenches the people used for passing their wastes. Dumping such wastes was a job no one liked to do. Picking up the torch, he then took them both to the lower end of the stream, far away from the place upstream that they had designated as their source of water. He rinsed them both out, letting the water flow through them; then with a shovel made of the scapula of some animal, with one edge thinned and sharpened, that was left there for the purpose, he filled the night basket something less than half full of dirt. Then, using clean sand from the bank of the waterway, he carefully washed and scoured his hands. Finally, with the torch to guide his way, he picked up the basket and bowl and headed back to the dwelling.

He put the night basket in its usual place, the bowl beside it, and the flaming torch in a holder made for it near the entrance. “That’s done,” he said, smiling at Ayla as he walked toward her. She was still holding the baby. He kicked off his sandals made of woven grass—the usual foot-coverings worn in the summer—and lay down beside her, propping himself up on one elbow.

“It will be someone else’s turn next,” she said.

“That water is cold,” he said.

“And so are your hands,” she said, reaching for them. “I should warm them up,” she added, the hint of suggestion in her voice.

He looked at her with glowing eyes, his pupils enlarged with desire, and the dim light inside the dwelling.

12

J
ondalar enjoyed watching Jonayla, whatever she was doing, whether it was nursing or playing with her feet or putting things in her mouth. He even liked to look at her when she was sleeping. Now he gazed at her trying to resist falling to sleep. She would start to let go of her mother’s nipple, then suckle a few more times and hold on for a moment, then begin to let go, and repeat the process. Finally she lay quietly in her mother’s arms. He was fascinated as a drop of milk formed at the end of the nipple and fell.

“I think she’s asleep,” he said, softly.

“Yes, I think so,” Ayla said. She had packed the baby in clean mouflon wool, which she had washed a few days before, and wrapped her up in her usual swaddling night clothes. The woman stood up and gently carried her infant to a nearby small sleeping roll. Ayla didn’t always move Jonayla out of her bed when she went to sleep, but on this night she definitely wanted their sleeping roll for just Jondalar and her.

When she went back, the man who was waiting watched her as she slipped back into her place beside him; she looked directly at him, which still took some conscious thought for her. Jondalar had taught her that among his people, and most of his kind—and hers—it was considered impolite, if not devious, if you didn’t look directly at the person to whom you were speaking.

While Ayla was looking at him, she started thinking about how other people saw this man she loved, how he appeared, his physical look. What was it about him that drew people to him before he even said a word? He was tall, with yellow hair lighter than hers, and he was strong and well made, with good proportions for his height. Though she couldn’t see the color in the dim light of the shelter, she knew that his eyes, which always caught people’s attention, matched the extraordinary blue of glacier water and the ice of its depths. She had seen both. He was intelligent and skilled in making things, like the flint tools he crafted, but more than that, she knew he had a quality, a charm, a charisma that attracted most people, but especially women. Zelandoni had been known to say that not even the Mother could refuse him if he asked.

He didn’t quite know he had it—it was an unconscious appeal—but he did tend to take for granted that he would always be welcomed. Though it wasn’t something he used on purpose, exactly, he knew he had an effect on people and benefited from it. Even his long Journey had not disabused him of the notion, or changed his perception that wherever he went, people would accept him, approve of him, like him. He had never really had to explain himself or find out how to fit in, and he never learned how to ask for pardon for doing something inappropriate or unacceptable.

If he seemed contrite or acted sorry—feelings that were usually genuine—people tended to accept that. Even when he was a young man and had beat Ladroman so badly that he knocked out his permanent front teeth, Jondalar didn’t have to find the words to say he was sorry, then face him, and say them. His mother paid a heavy compensation for him, and he was sent away to live with Dalanar, the man of his hearth, for a few years, but he didn’t have to do anything himself to make amends. He didn’t have to beg forgiveness, or even say he was sorry for doing something wrong and injuring the other boy.

Though to most people he was considered an amazingly handsome, masculine man, Ayla thought of him in a somewhat different way. Men of the people who raised her, men of the Clan, had features that were more rugged, with large round eye sockets, generous noses, and pronounced brow ridges. From the first moment she saw him, unconscious, almost dead, after being attacked by her lion, the man had aroused an unconscious memory of people she hadn’t seen in many years, a memory of people like herself. To Ayla, Jondalar’s features were not as strong as those of the men with whom she had grown up, but they were so perfectly shaped and arranged, she thought that he was incredibly beautiful, like a fine-looking animal, a healthy young horse or lion. Jondalar had explained to her that it was not a word usually used to describe men, but though she didn’t say it often, she did think he was beautiful.

He looked at her as he lay beside her, then bent his head to kiss her. He felt the softness of her lips and slowly moved his tongue between them, which she obligingly opened. He felt a tightening of his loins again.

“Ayla, you are so beautiful, and I am so lucky,” he said.

“I am so lucky,” she said. “And you are beautiful.”

He smiled. She knew it wasn’t quite the word to use, though she used “beautiful” correctly in all other instances. Now, when she said it to him in private, he just smiled. She hadn’t closed the ties at the top of the opening of her tunic, though her breast had slipped back inside. He reached in and pulled it out again, the same one she had just used to nurse, and ran his tongue around the nipple, then suckled on it, tasting her milk.

“It feels different inside me when you do it,” she said softly. “I like it when Jonayla nurses, but it doesn’t feel the same. You make me want you to touch me in other places.”

“You make me want to touch you in those places.”

He undid all the ties and opened her tunic wide, exposing both breasts. When he suckled her again, her other nipple dribbled milk, and he reached over to lick that one.

“I’m coming to like the taste of your milk, but I don’t want to take what belongs to Jonayla.”

“By the time she’s hungry again, more milk will be there.”

He let go of the nipple and ran his tongue up to her neck and then kissed her again, this time more fiercely, and felt a need so strong he wasn’t sure he could control it. He stopped and buried his face in her neck, trying to regain his composure. She began tugging on his tunic to pull it over his head.

“It’s been a while,” he said, sitting up on his knees. “I can’t believe how ready I am.”

“Are you?” she said, with a teasing grin.

“I’ll show you,” he said.

He stripped off his tunic with a two-handed pull over his head, then, standing, untied the drawstring around his waist and pulled off his short-legged trousers. Under those he wore a protective pouch that covered his man parts, tied on around his hips with thin strips of leather. Usually made of chamois or rabbit or some other soft skin, the thong pouches tended to be worn only in summer. If the weather became very warm or a man was working especially hard, he could strip down to just that and still feel protected. Jondalar’s pouch was bulging with the member it contained. He slipped the thongs down, releasing his straining manhood.

Ayla looked up at him, a slow smile showing her response. There was a time when the size of his member had frightened women, before they knew with what care and gentleness he used it. His first time with Ayla he was afraid she might be nervous, before they both understood how suited they were to each other. Sometimes Jondalar really couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Whenever he wanted her, she was ready for him. She never acted coy or disinterested. It was as if she always wanted him as much as he wanted her. He responded with a grin of such happiness and delight that in response her smile grew into the glorious manifestation that transformed her in his eyes, and those of most men, into a woman of unsurpassed beauty.

The fire in their small hearth was burning down, not yet out, but not giving much light or heat. It didn’t matter. He dropped down beside her and began to remove her clothing, first the long tunic, stopping to suck on her nipples again, before untying the thongs around her waist holding up her half-leggings. He loosened the waist ties, and pulled the leggings down, running his tongue down her stomach, dipping into her navel, then pulling them down more, uncovering her pubic hair. When the top of her slit showed, he dipped his tongue there, savoring her familiar taste and searching for the small knob. She made a small squeal of pleasure when he found it.

He pulled off her leggings, and bent down to kiss her again, then tasted milk and worked his way down and tasted her essence again. He spread her legs, opened her lovely petals, then found her swelling nodule. He knew just how to stimulate her; he suckled it and worked it with his tongue while he put his fingers inside her and found other places that stirred her senses.

She cried out, feeling jolts of fire rising through her. Almost too soon he felt a spurt of fluid, tasted her, and his urge to let himself go was so strong, he very nearly couldn’t hold back. He raised up, found her opening with his swollen manhood, and pushed in, grateful that he didn’t have to fear that he would hurt her, that she could take him all, that he fit so well.

She cried out again, and again each time he pulled out and moved in. And then he was there. With a groaning shout that he seldom expressed when others were around, he reached an intensely powerful peak and surged into her. As she heard his cries, she felt herself matching his movements, not even hearing her own sounds as the waves of sensation, matching his, flooded over her. She arched her back, pushing into him as he pushed against her. They held for a moment, shaking with the convulsions, pushing against each other as though trying to get inside each other and become one, and then they dropped down, panting to catch their breaths. He lay on top of her, the way she liked it, until he thought he must be too heavy on her and rolled over.

“I’m sorry it was so fast,” he said.

“I’m not. I was just as ready as you were, maybe more.”

They lay together for a while, then she said, “I’d like to take a quick dip in the stream.”

“You and your cold-water baths. Do you have any idea how cold that water is? Remember when we stayed with the Losadunai on our Journey here? The hot water that came out of the ground, and the wonderful hot baths they built?” Jondalar said.

“They were wonderful, but cold water makes you feel fresh and tingly. I don’t mind cold-water baths,” she said.

“And I’ve become accustomed to them. All right. Let’s build up the fire so it’s warm when we come back, and go take a cold wash, a quick cold wash.”

When glaciers covered the land not far to the north, even at the height of summer the evenings could be cool at latitudes midway between the pole and the equator. They took with them the soft chamois drying skins that had been given to them by their Sharamudoi friends on their Journey, and wrapping themselves in them, ran out to the stream, downriver of their usual water source, but not as far down as the waste basket washing place.

“This water is cold!” Jondalar protested when they ran in.

“Yes, it is,” Ayla said, crouching down so that the water reached her neck and covered her shoulders. She splashed cold water on her face, then used her hands to rub herself all over under the water. She ran out, picked up the chamois towel and wrapped it around herself, and dashed toward their shelter. Jondalar was close on her heels. They hovered over the fire and dried off quickly, then hung the wet skins on a peg. They crawled into their sleeping roll and cuddled close to get warm.

Once they felt comfortable again, he whispered in her ear, “If we go slowly, do you think you can be ready again?”

“I think so, if you can.”

Jondalar kissed her, searching with his tongue to open her mouth, and she responded in kind. This time, he didn’t want to rush it. He wanted to linger over her, explore her body, find all the special places that gave her pleasure, and let her find his. He ran his hand down her arm and felt her cool skin that was beginning to warm, then caressed her breast, feeling the contracted, hardened nipple in his palm. He manipulated it between his thumb and finger, then ducked his head under the cover to take it in his mouth.

There was a noise outside. They both lifted their heads above the covers to listen. There were voices, coming closer, and then the flap over the entry was pushed aside as people walked in. They both lay still listening. If everyone went right to bed, they could continue their new explorations. Neither one of them felt entirely comfortable sharing Pleasures while other people were sitting nearby fully awake and talking, although some people didn’t seem to mind. It wasn’t all that unusual, Jondalar realized, and tried to remember what he did when he was younger.

He knew they had grown used to seclusion when they spent a year traveling alone together to his home, but he thought that he was always a man who liked his privacy, even when Zolena was teaching him. Especially when the teaching became more than a donii-woman and her young charge, when they actually became lovers, and he wanted her to be his mate. Then he recognized her voice along with that of his mother and Willamar. The First had come with them to the camp of the Ninth Cave.

“Let me get some water heating for tea,” Marthona said. “We can get a light from Jondalar’s hearth.”

“She knows we’re awake,” Jondalar whispered to Ayla. “I think we’re going to have to get up.”

“I think you’re right,” Ayla said.

“I’ll bring you some fire, mother,” Jondalar said, pushing the covers back and reaching for his pouch thong.

“Oh, did we wake you?” Marthona said.

“No, mother,” he said. “You didn’t wake us.” He got up and found a long, thin piece of kindling and held it to the fire until it caught, then brought the fire to the main hearth in the shelter.