THE PLAINS OF PASSAGE ec-4

by Jean M. Auel

  Her hair had a tendency to curl, and it tangled easily, but he worked carefully, freeing each snarl with very little pulling. Then he brushed her hair until it was smooth and nearly dry. She closed her eyes, feeling a strange, shivery delight. Iza had combed her hair for her when she was a little girl, gently pulling out the tangles with a long, smooth, pointed stick, but no man ever had. Jondalar's combing of her hair gave her an intense feeling of being cared for and loved.

  And he discovered that he enjoyed combing and brushing her hair. The dark gold color reminded him of ripe grass, but with sun-bleached highlights that were nearly white. It was beautiful, and so thick and soft, handling it was a sensuous pleasure that made him want more. When he finished, he put the brush down, then lifted up the slightly damp tresses, and, moving them aside, bent down to kiss her shoulders and the back of her neck.

  Ayla kept her eyes closed, feeling the tingles caused by his warm breath and soft lips as he brushed them lightly over her skin. He nibbled at her neck and caressed both her arms, then reached around to hold both breasts, lifting them and feeling their pleasant substantial weight, and the firm, upright nipples in his palms.

  When he reached around to kiss her throat, Ayla lifted her head and turned slightly, then felt his hot rigid organ against her back. She turned around and took it in her hands, enjoying the softness of the skin that covered the warm hard shaft. She put one hand above the other, and moved them firmly up and clown, and Jondalar felt a surge of sensation, but the feeling magnified beyond measure when he felt the warm wetness of her mouth enclose him.

  Letting out an explosive sigh, he closed his eyes as the sensations coursed through him. Then he opened his eyes a crack to watch, and could not help but reach for the soft beautiful hair that filled his lap. When she drew him in farther, he thought for a moment he could not hold back and would give it up at that instant. But he wanted to wait, wanted the exquisite pleasure it gave him to Pleasure her. He loved to do it, loved knowing he could. He would almost be willing to give up his own Pleasure to Pleasure her… almost.

  Hardly knowing how she got there, Ayla found herself on her back on top of their sleeping roll, with Jondalar stretched out beside her. He kissed her. She opened her mouth a little, just enough to allow his tongue entrance, and put her arms around him. She loved the way it felt when his lips were firmly on hers, with his tongue gently exploring. Then he pulled away and looked down at her.

  "Woman, do you have any idea how much I love you?"

  She knew it was true. She could see it in his eyes, his brilliant, vivid, unbelievable blue eyes that caressed with their look, and even from a distance, could send shivers through her. His eyes expressed the emotions he tried so hard to keep under control. "I know how much I love you," Ayla said.

  "I still can hardly believe it, that you are here with me, and not back at the Summer Meeting mated to Ranec." At the thought of how close he came to losing her to the charming, dark-skinned carver of ivory, he suddenly clutched her to him tightly with fierce need.

  She held him, too, grateful that their long winter of misunderstanding had finally ended. She had sincerely loved Ranec – he was a good man and would have made a good mate – but he wasn't Jondalar, and her love for the tall man who was holding her in his arms was beyond anything she could explain.

  His powerful dread of losing her eased, replaced, as he felt her warm body beside him, by a desire for her that was as strong. Suddenly he was kissing her neck and her shoulders and her breasts, as though he couldn't get enough of her.

  Then he stopped and took a deep breath. He wanted to make it last, and he wanted to use his skill to give her the best he could – and he was skilled. He had been taught by one who knew, and with more love than she should have felt. He had wanted to please and had been more than willing to learn. He had learned so well that among his people there was a joke about him that had often been made: it was said he was an expert in two crafts; he was also an excellent knapper of flint tools.

  Jondalar looked down at her, watching her breathe, loving the sight of her full, womanly form, and delighting in the mere fact of her existence. His shadow fell across her, blocking the heat of the sun. Ayla opened her eyes and looked up. The brilliant sun behind him gleaming through his fair hair surrounded his shadowed face with a golden aura. She wanted him, was ready for him, but when he smiled and bent down to kiss her navel, she closed her eyes again and gave herself up to him, knowing what he wanted, and the Pleasures he could make her feel.

  He held her breasts, then slowly ran his hand along her side, to the curving in of her waist and lush swelling of her hip, then down her thigh. She tingled at the touch. He brought his hand back up her inner thigh, feeling the special softness there, and over the springy golden curls of her mound. He caressed her stomach, then bent to kiss her navel before he reached for her breasts again, and kissed both nipples. His hands were like gentle fire, feeling warm and wonderful, and left her burning with excitement. He caressed her again, and her skin remembered every place he touched.

  He kissed her on the mouth and gently, slowly, kissed her eyes and her cheeks, her chin and her jaw, then breathed into her ear. His tongue found the hollow of her throat and continued down between her breasts. He took each one in his hands and held them together, delighting in their fullness, the slight salty taste of her, and the feel of her skin, as his own desire was mounting. His tongue tickled one nipple, and then the other, and then she felt the deep throbbing surge as he pulled it in his mouth. He explored her nipple with his tongue, pressing, pulling, nibbling lightly, then reached for the other with his hand.

  She pressed up to him, losing herself in the sensations coursing through her body, and centered on the seat of pleasure she felt deep within. With his warm tongue, he found her navel again, and as a light wind blew cool on her skin, he circled and then dropped lower, to the soft curly fur of her mound, then for a quick moment to her warm slit and hard node of her Pleasure. She raised her hips to him, and cried out.

  He nestled between her legs, and with his hands, opened her to look at her warm rosy flower of petals and folds. He dipped down to taste – he knew her taste and loved it – then held back no longer, and reveled in exploring her. His tongue found the familiar folds, reached into her deep well, and then reached up higher for the small, hard node.

  As he worked his tongue over it, suckling and nibbling, she cried out again and again, her breath coming faster, and the surge inside building. All feeling was turned inward, there was no wind, no sun, only the rising intensity of her senses. He knew it was coming, and though he could hardly hold back himself, he slowed and backed off, hoping to draw it out, but she reached for him unable to wait. As it came closer, building, growing, tightening with anticipation, he could hear her moans of pleasure.

  Suddenly it was there, the powerful shuddering waves seizing her, then with a convulsive cry, crashing over her. She burst with the spasm of release, and with it came the indescribable desire to feel his manhood inside her. She reached for him, trying to bring him to her.

  He felt her spurt of wetness and, sensing her need for him, raised up, clasping his eager shaft to guide it into her deep and welcoming well. She felt him enter and raised up to meet him as he plunged in. The embrace of her warm folds encircled him, and he penetrated deeply, feeling no fear that his size was more than she could hold. That was part of the wonder of her, that she matched him.

  He pulled out, feeling the exquisite pleasure of the movement, and with complete abandon, plunged in again, deeply, while she raised up tight against him. He almost reached his peak, but the intensity backed down, and he pulled out again, then pushed in again, and again, and again, with each stroke building higher. Pulsing with the sensations of his movement, she felt the fullness of him, then his drawing back and filling her again, and was beyond feeling anything else.

  She heard his strong breathing, and her own, as their cries mingled. Then he cried out her name, she rose to meet him, and, with a
great overflowing burst, they felt a release that matched the fiery sun in its glowing flame as it shot its last bright rays into the valley, and dropped behind the dark and rolling clouds, outlined in burnished gold.

  After a few more strokes, he relaxed on top of her, feeling her rounded curves beneath him. She always loved that moment with him, the feeling of his weight on her. He never felt heavy; it was just a comfortable pressure and a closeness that warmed her while they rested.

  Suddenly a warm tongue was licking her face, and a cold nose was exploring their closeness. "Go away, Wolf," she said, shoving the animal away. "Go on, get out of here."

  "Wolf, go away!" Jondalar said harshly, adding his command, and pushing the cold wet nose away, but the mood was broken. As he lifted off Ayla and rolled to his side, he felt a trifle annoyed, but he couldn't really be angry; he felt too wonderful for that.

  Getting up on one elbow, Jondalar looked at the animal that had backed off a few paces and was sitting on his haunches watching them with his tongue hanging out, panting. He could have sworn the animal was grinning at them, and he smiled wryly at the woman he loved. "You've been getting him to stay. Do you think you'll be able to teach him to go when you want him to?"

  "I think I'm going to try."

  "It's a lot of work, having a wolf around," Jondalar said.

  "Well, yes, it takes a little effort, especially since he's so young. So do the horses, but it's worth it. I like having them around. They are like very special friends."

  At least, the man thought, the horses gave something back. Whinney and Racer carried them, and their gear; because of them, their Journey might not take as long. But except for flushing out an animal once in a while, Wolf didn't seem to contribute much. Jondalar decided, though, not to mention his thoughts.

  With the sun behind the angry rolling black clouds, discoloring to a livid red and purple as though battered and bruised by the churning, it cooled off quickly in the wooded valley. Ayla got up and splashed into the river once more. Jondalar followed in after her. Long before, when she was growing up, Iza, the Clan medicine woman, had taught her the purification rituals of womanhood, even though she doubted that her strange and – even she admitted – ugly adopted daughter, would ever have need for some of them. Nonetheless, she felt it was her duty, and she explained, among other things, how to take care of herself after being with a man. She stressed that, whenever possible, purification with water was especially important to a woman's totem spirit. Washing, no matter how cold the water, was a ritual that Ayla always remembered.

  They dried off again and dressed, put the sleeping furs back in the tent, and rekindled the fire. Ayla removed the dirt and the stones from the ground oven and, with her wooden tongs, retrieved their meal. Afterward, while Jondalar rearranged his packs, she made her preparations for an easy departure, including their usual morning meal of food from the evening before, eaten cold except for the hot herbal tea. Then she put cooking stones to heat for boiling water; she made tea often, varying the ingredients for taste or need.

  The horses wandered back as the last streaks of the departing sun colored the sky. Usually they fed during part of the night, since they traveled so much during the day and needed large quantities of the rough grass of the steppes to sustain them. But the meadow grass had been especially rich and green, and they liked to stay near the fire at night.

  While Ayla was waiting for the stones to heat, she contemplated the valley in the last glow of twilight, adding to her observations the knowledge gained during the day: the steeply sloping sides that abruptly joined the broad flat valley floor with its little river winding down the middle. It was a rich valley, reminding her of her childhood with the Clan, but she didn't like the place. Something about it made her uneasy, and the feeling worsened with the coming of night. She was also feeling some fullness and a little backache, and she attributed her disquiet to the slight discomforts she occasionally experienced when her moon time was coming on. She wished she could go for a walk, activity usually helped, but it was already too dark.

  She listened to the wind moaning as it sighed through the swaying willow trees, silhouetted against silvery clouds. The glowing full moon, encircled by a distinct halo, took turns hiding behind, then brilliantly illuminating the softly textured sky. Ayla decided some willowbark tea might relieve her discomfort and quickly got up to cut some fresh. While she was at it, she decided to gather some flexible willow withes.

  By the time their evening tea was ready and Jondalar joined her, the night air was damp and cold, cold enough for outer clothes. They sat close to the fire, glad to be sipping the hot tea. Wolf had hovered close to Ayla all evening, following her every step, but he seemed content to curl up by her feet when she sat near the warm flames, as though he'd done enough exploring that day. She picked up the thin, long willow twigs and began weaving with them.

  "What are you making?" Jondalar asked.

  "A head covering, to make a shade from the sun. It is getting very hot in the middle of the day," Ayla explained. She paused for a moment, then added, "I thought you might find use for one."

  "You are making that for me?" he said with a smile. "How did you know I was wishing I had something to shade the sun today?"

  "A woman of the Clan learns to anticipate the needs of her mate." She smiled. "And you are my mate, aren't you?"

  He smiled back. "Without doubt, my woman of the Clan. And we'll announce it to all the Zelandonii at the Matrimonial of the first Summer Meeting we join. But how can you anticipate needs? And why must Clan women learn that?"

  "It's not difficult. You just think about someone. It was hot today, and I thought about making a head covering… making a sun hat… for myself, so I knew it must be hot for you, too," she said, picking up another willow withe to add to the broadly conical hat that was beginning to take shape. "Men of the Clan don't like to ask tor anything, especially for their own comfort. It is not considered manly behavior for them to think about comfort, so a woman must anticipate a man's needs. He protects her from danger; it's her way of protecting him, to make sure he has the right clothing and eats well. She doesn't want anything to happen to him. Who would protect her and her children then?"

  "Is that what you are doing? Protecting me so I will protect you?" he asked, grinning. "And your children?" In the firelight, his blue eyes were a deep violet, and they sparkled with fun.

  "Well, not exactly," she said, looking down at her hands. "I think it's really the way a Clan woman tells her mate how much she cares for him, whether she has children or not." She watched her rapidly moving hands, though Jondalar had the feeling that she didn't need to see what she was doing. She could have made the hat in the dark. She picked up another long twig, then looked directly at him. "But I do want to have another child before I get too old."

  "You have a long way to go for that," he said, putting another piece of wood on the fire. "You're still young."

  "No, I'm getting to be an old woman. I am already…" She closed her eyes to concentrate as she pressed her fingers against her leg, saying the number words he had taught her, to verify to herself the right word for the number of years she had lived. "… Eighteen years."

  "That old!" Jondalar laughed. "I have seen twenty-two years. I'm the one who is old."

  "If it takes us a year to travel, I will be nineteen years when we reach your home. In the Clan, that would be almost too old for child-bearing."

  "Many Zelandonii women have children at that age. Maybe not their first, but their second or third. You are strong and healthy. I don't think you're too old to have children, Ayla. But I will tell you this. There are times when your eyes seem ancient, as though you've lived many lifetimes in your eighteen years."

  It was an unusual thing for him to say, and she stopped her work to look at him. The feeling she evoked in him was almost frightening. She was so beautiful in the light of the fire, and he loved her so much, he didn't know what he would do if anything ever happened to her. Overcome, he look
ed away. Then, to ease the moment, he tried to introduce a lighter subject.

  "I'm the one who should worry about age. I'd be willing to wager that I will be the oldest man at the Matrimonial," he said, then laughed. "Twenty-three is old for a man to be mated for the first time. Most men my age have several children at their hearths."

  He looked at her, and she saw again that look of overwhelming love and fear in his eyes. "Ayla, I want you to have a child, too, but not while we're traveling. Not until we're safely back. Not yet."

  "No, not yet," she said.

  She worked quietly for a while, thinking about the son she had left behind with Uba, and about Rydag, who had been like her son in many ways. Both of them lost to her. Even Baby, who was, in a strange way, like a son – at least, he was the first male animal she found and cared for – had left her. She would never see him again. She looked at Wolf, suddenly worried that she might lose him, too. I wonder, she thought, why is my totem taking all my sons away from me? I must be unlucky with sons.

  "Jondalar, do your people have any special customs about wanting children?" Ayla asked. "Women of the Clan are always supposed to want sons."

  "No, not really. I think men want a woman to bring sons to his hearth, but I think women like to have daughters first."

  "What would you like to have? Someday?"

  He turned to study her in the light of the fire. Something seemed to be bothering her. "Ayla, it doesn't matter to me. Whatever you want; or whatever the Mother gives you."

  Now it was her turn to study him. She wanted to be sure he really meant it. "Then I think I'm going to wish for a daughter. I don't want to lose any more children."

  Jondalar didn't quite know what she meant and didn't know how to respond. "I don't want you to lose any more children, either."