“I do not know,” she answered thoughtfully. “I knew I had to leave, that I was in the wrong place and must find the right one. That is all I knew. And so I left.” She shuddered. “I do not know, though, what would have happened to me, to my child, if we had not found you.”
“I left because of the shell, too,” she added abruptly. “I had forgotten. The girl Brulet had a beautiful shell and she often let me look at it. She was very fond of that shell, though I do not know how she came by it. When I saw the shell I knew I had once been in a place where shells like that were found. I did not know where the place was, but it helped me to realize that I did not belong in the village and that I had to find the place where I did belong.”
Durak smiled. “We – the Mother People - often find shells and bring them back when we go to the sea for the ceremonies,” he told her. “Zena may have given that one to Brulet.”
“One day, perhaps I too will go to that sea,” Pila answered hopefully.
“I am sure you will,” Durak agreed fervently. Pila still did not remember much, and he tried to prod her memory gently by telling her the story of how Zena’s twin sister, who was called Teran, had disappeared.
“Zena left Teran for a short time to fetch a basket for the berries they were picking, and when she returned, her sister was gone. Her people looked everywhere for her but no one has ever found a trace of her,” he explained, watching Pila’s face carefully. For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of recognition when he spoke of berries. It vanished quickly, and then she only looked confused.
Contrite, Durak spoke of the Goddess instead. That, Pila did remember. Each time he talked about the Mother, Pila looked as if a huge hole in her life were being filled, not just with words and memories, but with an essence that brought her great serenity. Even her lack of memory did not seem to trouble her as much as it might have without the sense of peace the Mother brought her. Her memory would come back, Pila assured him, when the Mother willed it. She would wait.
Durak envied her that acceptance. He was happier than he had ever been before, but the imagines still tormented him sometimes, mostly when he got too close to Pila. He had not spoken of them to her, unable to find the words, though he had told her the rest of Rofina’s story. Pila had listened with a different kind of sympathy than others. She did not exclaim that what had been done to Rofina was horrible or tell him to stop thinking about it or to try to feel happy; instead, she simply suggested something they could do together after he had talked, and the doing of it had made him feel better. So had the telling.
He rose and put a new log on the fire. At first, they had been chilled by gusts of cold air that came through cracks in the walls on windy days, threatening to blow out the fire. Pila had solved that problem by gathering any materials she could find, old piles of leaves, clumps of mud and bits of wood, to stuff into the cracks. Food had been more difficult, but together they had managed to bring down two deer, and these had lasted a long time, frozen in a pit they had dug just outside the hut before the ground hardened.
The earth would not stay frozen much longer, he reflected, if the rains were any indication. It had rained hard for days now. The streams were so full they charged down the hills like rivers, and the lake was overflowing. Durak did not think he ever remembered so many days of steady, drenching rain. Yesterday, they had heard loud cracking noises, followed by muffled crashes to the west and south. There must have been a landslide or an avalanche over there, he realized, and he hoped the people in Runor’s village and the other villages beyond the pass were all right. There was no way to know until they could travel, and that would not be for some time, if the rains persisted. The streams were impassable.
Since he could do nothing, Durak put the matter from his mind, for the moment at least. Besides, people usually knew enough not to build their villages where avalanches and landslides were likely to fall, and the crashing had almost stopped now. He wished the rain would stop as well, although he would miss the steady drumming on the roof that lulled them to sleep at night. And at least the rain meant spring and summer were on the way.
When the streams were less full and the mud less deep, he could take Pila and the baby to his village, Durak thought, if she thought she was ready to go. He was not sure, and he was even less sure about himself. He felt a strange reluctance to leave this place, afraid that his newfound happiness might disappear. He and Pila were like brother and sister, he reflected, content in each other’s presence and able to talk to each other about all their thoughts without restraint. He would be completely happy, he thought, but for the fact that Pila still did not remember who she was and that he cared so much for her but he could never…
Durak thrust that thought away. That was not Pila’s problem.
She glanced at him suddenly and then dropped her eyes. He had the impression that she had been about to speak but had not. Then, for no apparent reason, tension grew between them. Durak frowned, wondering what had happened. Had he said something wrong and had not known it? But he had not said anything.
Pila spoke, and he heard the tension in her voice. So she had felt it too. “Will you ever find another mate after Rofina?” she asked unexpectedly.
Durak stiffened. “I do not know,” he replied carefully. “I… I…” A spasm of uncontrollable emotion paralyzed his lips and he could not go on.
“I have felt there is something more,” Pila said gently. “Not just grief because of what happened to Rofina, but something else that hurts you, or that you do not wish to speak of. But I think you must, you know. It is the only way.”
She watched him closely, not wanting to pry but wanting badly to help him as he had helped her. She had seen this involuntary spasm before, as if Durak were in the grip of an emotion he could not control. It seemed to come each time she got close to him, she thought, struggling to understand. Often, she had wanted to hug him or take him in her arms but had not, sensing a kind of reserve in him that kept her away. Was it she who repelled him, Pila wondered, or was it just closeness of any kind?
The last, she thought. He cared for her; she was almost certain it was true. Many times she had felt that he wanted her but was afraid.
For a long time Durak was silent, then he suddenly put his face in his hands and mumbled through his fingers, as if ashamed.
“There is something else,” he admitted, “but it is not your problem, only mine. I have never spoken of it. Not to speak is better.”
“No,” Pila insisted stubbornly. “It is not better. A wound cannot heal unless it is cleansed, brought into the light where it cannot fester. That is what you did for me. You brought my wounds into the light, made me speak of them, see them more clearly and let them heal. You did that for me and I would like to do that for you.”
“You cannot.” Durak muttered helplessly. “At least, I do not think…” He tried to look at her but could not. Worse things had happened to her than had ever happened to him, he thought miserably, but still she was stronger. He must be very weak.
Pila took his face into her own hands and looked at him, saw the spasm of emotion come again. Durak flinched away from her. Deliberately, she placed the baby, who was sleeping now, into the cradle they had made for him, and put her arms around Durak. He stiffened and then, to his horror, he began to weep.
“Ah,” she said, her voice once again matter-of-fact. “I thought perhaps that was it. You have never touched me except to help me walk or tend my ankle, do you realize that?”
“I dare not touch you,” he murmured, so low she could barely hear. “It does not… does not work… Every time I do the images come again, that is the only time I cannot control them, if I get too… And then I cannot see anything else, feel anything else…”
“The images,” Pila repeated softly, remembering what Durak had told her about Rofina, how she had begged with her eyes, her body. No wonder. Every time he got close to her, or anyone, he saw those images again and then he could not respond.
She must
break the cycle. For a long time, she sat holding his stiff body, afraid to try but determined to try anyway.
He shuddered and seemed to relax a little against her. Pila moved closer to him. He stiffened again. Gently but firmly she pushed him down on the pallet by the fire and lay down beside him, her arms still around him. She waited again, until his trembling stopped and some of the rigidity had left his body. Then she spoke with perfect certainty.
“That will not happen now,” she told him. “The images will not come because I will not let them. You must trust me now; trust that I can keep them away.” Pulling him closer still, she continued, her voice slow and soft and gentle, as if she were speaking to a child.
“Lie close to me now, very close and do not think of anything but the sky, the beautiful blue of the sky that comes in the summer when we can lie outside, of the stars that come out one at a time, of the moon as it rises up to begin its circle around the sky, of the glowing sun as it moves through its course each day. Listen to the sound of the rain outside, which wipes away the snow, and when spring has come we will hear the insects call, and the frogs. Each night they will delight us with their chorus of sweet sounds, and so will the birds as they sing in the morning and settle in the trees at night. Think of the animals that will emerge from their burrows then, and how the streams will rush so loudly through their banks. Think of these things and nothing else, not of me nor of yourself or any other, only of the Mother and all She has given us….
On and on her voice went, murmuring, cajoling, keeping his attention, and all the while her hands explored every part of his body. Gradually she felt his resistance fall away. He did not move, only lay like a quiescent child, absorbing, relaxing, under her touch. She kept on talking, kept on stroking, feeling the tension come out of him, and sensing his trust in her. But then, unmistakably, he was no longer a child. She could feel the hard bulge of him against her belly. She did not give him a chance to notice and be afraid but kept up the stream of soothing murmurs, the ceaseless stroking of his arms, his chest and thighs.
Slowly, deliberately, she allowed her hands to become more intense, more demanding, until they were no longer the hands of a sister but those of a lover, but still she forced herself to concentrate only on what he was feeling, so she would know if he began to slip away from her. She must not let him go; she had brought him this far and she must keep him with her, must not let him think or sink back into the fear that had been with him all this time....
Her hands never ceased their steady stroking, but when she was sure he was ready, she let her voice diminish and her lips speak for her, all over his body and his face. She heard him groan with pleasure, felt his hands slowly move to her back. She placed her mouth against his and pressed hard against it, as if she would never let go, and suddenly she felt the passion sweep into him, as uncontrollable as the fear that had possessed him before. He strained against her, his body lifting with the urgency of his need. He wanted her now, wanted her desperately, and she realized with surprise that with his passion had come her own, a passion she had not felt before, had not been sure she would ever feel after what had happened. She wanted him inside her as urgently as he wanted to be held within her, but still she must not forget her purpose, so she pulled the passion into her, felt the wonder of its pleasure, then willed it back into him. He could not leave her now; she could not bear it, and so she kept on pushing the passion back into his straining body.
And then, without conscious effort, he was inside her. They were moving now as one person, inextricably joined in the urgency of their need. Every part of them moved together, the lips that clung, the tongues that explored; the hands that could not let go. Pila felt him shudder, then still more intensity seemed to fill him, and she knew he was lost in the ecstasy. An aching groan came from him; his body arched against hers as he shuddered again and again and again. But then she ceased to know what he did, for her body took over and she felt the ecstasy mount inside her, and then she was shuddering with him, the strong desperate shuddering of people who needed badly for love to erase the pain that had been inside them.
They clung to each other as the ecstasy took them once more, gentler now, then laid them softly back against the ground, spent, utterly satiated.
The baby’s sudden cries startled them. Already, he was yelling lustily again for food. Pila groaned at the interruption but fed him willingly, put him back in his cradle and lay down again beside Durak. Later in the night she woke again and realized that Durak was moving against her, his body urgent once more with his need. She pulled him close and took him into her, felt the glorious sensations that came after satiation, smaller, warmer, and then they came once again, almost spiritual now in their intensity. Toward morning, they came together in Akat again, and this time the movements were full of lust, the healthy lust of two people who understand the mutuality of their needs.
When she woke again, the light was stronger. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at Durak. He was still asleep, his face totally relaxed, and a tiny smile curved his lips, as if he were dreaming of what had passed between them. Pila placed her own lips gently against his, not wanting to wake him but to seal the bond of love that had formed between them. She had set out to help Durak and in the process, she had helped herself, or perhaps he had helped her. All this time, without knowing it, she had been afraid she would never be able to enjoy mating after the violence she had experienced. She had been wrong, and Durak had given her that.
A memory surfaced, and her eyes opened wide with pleasure. Akat, the Mother People called mating. There were many types, the women had told them when they had all gone together to… to what? The name would not come but she knew it was a place in the woods where the young women went sometimes and men did not come. There was Akat, the woman had said, which was plain mating, and Akatelo, which was long and sensuous with lots of stroking, Akate, which was fast and lusty, and the tenderness of Akatele, and the spiritual bonding of Akatalelo that was seldom achieved. Perhaps, though, she and Durak might achieve it together if they kept trying. It seemed to her they had already tried most of the others.
No, she thought. There was one more - the playful, joyous romping of Akato. Pila grinned. Tickling Durak gently, she increased the pressure of her lips. There was just time, she thought, before the baby woke again.
***************************
Durak kissed Pila fervently on the lips. Then he leaped to his feet, full of an ecstatic energy he had not felt in years. He was utterly satiated with pleasure, and both he and Pila felt a joy so deep they could barely contain it. He wanted nothing more than to stay here with her and take her in his arms again instead of venturing out into the chilly air of early spring, but his traps had to be checked. The two deer were almost gone now and they needed more meat.
The sooner he accomplished the task, the sooner he could come back here again and be with Pila, he told himself as he pulled on his boots.
Whistling, grateful that the sun was finally trying to break through the clouds after days and days of relentless rain, he strode up the steep slope to the highest trap, which was near the lake. Just as he arrived at the trap, an arrow zinged past his shoulder and plunged into the earth beside him.
Shocked out of his rapturous mood, Durak dropped to the ground and crawled behind a boulder. That arrow had come too close! Could it be a hunter who had mistaken him for game? Or did someone want to shoot him? But why?
Abruptly, he remembered Rofina. Korg and the Leader might want revenge because he had taken her away from them. Before, he had hardly cared if they came after him; now he did. He should not have ventured outside without exercising his usual caution. He had not even remembered to bring his knife or his bow so he could defend himself.
Then he spotted the hooded stranger, and his heart froze. The huge man was standing a short distance away, short and stocky and incredibly strong. His arms and chest were so thick he resembled a bear. He was alone, and the absence of the two women who had a
ccompanied him before made him seem even more monstrous, less human – except a bear would not have cruelty on his face. Even with half his features covered by the hood, Durak could see a savage, implacable resolve. This man wanted to kill, to kill him…
A desperate sensation of helplessness overwhelmed Durak. He reached for a rock, but even before he hurled it at the looming figure he was sure it would bounce off the solid body. A second later he knew he was right. The man paid no attention to the rock that had hit him. As Durak watched in horror, he pulled another arrow out of his quiver. Then he took a few steps to one side for better aim, set the arrow in his bow and raised his massive arms to shoot. Eyes wide with desperation, Durak lurched away from him and tumbled into a shallow depression between two ridges.
His evasive movement came too late. He felt the arrow thud into the middle of his chest. The force of the blow sent him tumbling backward, and he hit his head on the boulder. He tried to crawl further away but he was too dizzy to move. But he must move, must rouse himself to warn Pila at least, to shout. He tried to call out, but fear had frozen his voice. The man stood where he was, watching, his face impassive, uncaring.
Despair surged into Durak. Was he going to die up here just when he had finally found happiness again? What would happen to his beloved Pila? That was the most horrible. They were so happy, he thought disconnectedly, so happy, and now it would all disappear… And Pila, his poor Pila… She could not fight a man like that; no one could, and he could not help her…
Great Mother, he cried out, but knew the words did not come, do not let this happen, not to Pila, not to us, who have finally found such love…
There was no answer, only the sound of a chill wind whistling across the swollen lake, the coldness that numbed his bleeding body. Just before he lost consciousness, Durak saw the man’s hood fall away from his face, revealing the terrible scarring. The maimed features were twisted with an emotion Durak could not name – was it grief, or rage, or both? He did not know. Once more he struggled to get up, to go to Pila so he could warn her, then his eyes closed and he ceased to move.
ICE BURIAL: The Oldest Human Murder Mystery (The Mother People Series Book 3) Page 26