The Valley of Horses (80 page)

“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, O 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.