by Jean M. Auel
Jondalar had reached the cool shade of the wooded strip near the stream. His urgency was so strong that he could not constrain himself. Only moments after he was out of sight behind a screen of dense foliage, spasms of viscous white spurted to the ground, and then, still holding himself, he leaned his head against the tree, shaking. It was release, nothing more, but at least he could face the woman without trying to throw her down and force her.
He found a stick to loosen the soil and covered the essence of his Pleasures with the earth of the Mother. Zelandoni had told him it was a waste of the Mother’s Gift to spill it, but if it was necessary, it should be given back to Her, spilled on the ground and covered. Zelandoni was right, he thought. It was a waste, and there had been no pleasure in it.
He walked alongside the stream, embarrassed to come out in the open. He saw her waiting by the large boulder with her arm around the colt and her forehead pressed on Whinney’s neck. She looked so vulnerable, clinging to the animals for support and comfort. She should be leaning on him for support, he thought, he should be comforting her. He was sure he had caused her distress, and he felt ashamed, as though he had committed some reprehensible act. With reluctance, he came out of the woods.
“There are times when a man can’t wait to make his stream,” he lied, with a weak smile.
Ayla was surprised. Why should he make words that were not true? She knew what he had done. He had relieved himself.
A man of the Clan would have asked for the leader’s mate before he would have relieved himself. If he couldn’t control his need, even she, as ugly as she was, would have been signaled, if there was no other woman. No adult male would relieve himself. Only adolescents, who had reached physical maturity but had not yet made their first kill, would consider it. But Jondalar had preferred to take care of himself rather than signal her. She was beyond hurt; she was humiliated.
She ignored his words and avoided a direct look. “If you want to ride Whinney, I’ll hold her while you get up on the rock and put your leg over. I will tell Whinney you want to ride. Maybe she will let you.”
That was the reason they had stopped picking, he recalled. What had happened to his enthusiasm? How could so much change in the course of walking from one end of the field to the other? Trying to give the impression that everything was normal, he climbed up on the seatlike indentation of the large boulder while Ayla guided the horse closer, but he avoided eye contact, too.
“How do you make her go where you want?” he asked.
Ayla had to consider the question. “I do not make her go, she wants to go where I want to go.”
“But how does she know where you want to go?”
“I don’t know …” She didn’t; she hadn’t thought about it.
Jondalar decided he didn’t care. He was willing to go wherever the horse would take him, if she was willing to take him at all. He put a hand on her withers to steady himself, then gingerly straddled the horse.
Whinney cocked her ears back. She knew it wasn’t Ayla, and the load was heavier and lacked the immediate sense of guidance, the muscle tension of Ayla’s thighs and legs. But Ayla was close, holding her head, and the man was familiar. The mare pranced with uncertainty but settled down after a few moments.
“What do I do now?” Jondalar asked, seated on the small horse with his long legs dangling on either side—not quite knowing what to do with his hands.
Ayla patted the horse with familiar reassurance, then addressed her in a language that was part gesture, part clipped Clan words, and part Zelandonii. “Jondalar would like you to give him a ride, Whinney.”
Her voice had the urging-forward tone, and her hand exerted gentle pressure; cue enough to the animal so attuned to the woman’s directions. Whinney started forward.
“If you need to hold on, put your arms around her neck,” Ayla advised.
Whinney was used to carrying a person on her back. She didn’t jump or buck, but without guidance, she moved with hesitancy. Jondalar leaned forward to pat her neck, as much to reassure himself as the horse, but the movement had a similarity to Ayla’s direction to move faster. The unexpected forward jolt caused the man to follow Ayla’s advice. He wrapped his arms around the mare’s neck, leaning far forward. To Whinney, it was a signal to increase speed.
The horse broke into an all-out gallop straight across the field, with Jondalar hanging on to her neck for all he was worth, his long hair streaming behind him. He could feel the wind in his face, and, when he finally dared open his eyes a crack, he saw the land moving past at an alarming speed. It was frightening—and thrilling! He understood Ayla’s inability to describe the feeling. It was like sliding down an icy hill in winter, or the time he was pulled up the river by the big sturgeon, but more exciting. His eye was drawn by a blur of movement to his left. The bay colt was racing beside his mother, matching her pace.
He heard a distant whistle, sharp and piercing, and suddenly the horse wheeled around in a tight turn and galloped back.
“Sit up!” she called to Jondalar as they approached. When the horse slowed, nearing the woman, he sat up straighter. Whinney cantered to a halt beside the stone.
Jondalar was shaking a bit when he dismounted, but his eyes glistened with excitement. Ayla patted the mare’s sweaty flanks, then followed her more slowly when Whinney trotted toward the beach near the cave.
“Do you know that colt kept up with her the whole way? What a racer he is!”
From the way Jondalar used it, Ayla sensed there was more to the word than its meaning. “What is a ‘racer’?” she asked.
“At Summer Meetings there are contests—all kinds—but the most exciting are the Races, the running contests,” he explained. “The runners are called racers, and the word has come to mean anyone who strives to win, or tries to achieve some goal. It is a word of approval and encouragement-praise.”
“The colt is a racer; he likes to run.”
They continued walking in silence, which grew more painful with each step. “Why did you tell me to sit up?” Jondalar finally asked, trying to fill it. “I thought you said you didn’t know how you told Whinney what you wanted. She did slow down when I sat up.”
“I never thought about it before, but when I saw you corning, I suddenly thought, ‘sit up.’ I didn’t know how to tell you at first, but when you needed to slow down, I just knew.”
“You do give the horse signals, then. Some kind of signals. I wonder if the colt could learn signals,” he mused.
They reached the wall that extended out toward the water and rounded it to the spectacle of Whinney rolling in the mud at the edge of the stream to cool down, groaning with exquisite pleasure. Near her was the colt with his legs in the air. Jondalar, smiling, stopped to watch, but Ayla kept walking with her head down. He caught up with her as she started up the path.
“Ayla …” She turned around, and then he didn’t know what to say. “I … I, ahhh … I want to thank you.”
It was still a word she had some difficulty comprehending. There was no direct parallel in the Clan. The members of each small clan were so dependent on each other for survival, mutual assistance was a way of life. Thanks were no more offered than a baby would thank its mother for care, or a mother expect it. Special favors or gifts imposed obligations to return them in kind, and they were not always received with pleasure.
The closest anyone in the Clan came to thanks was a form of gratitude from someone of lower status to someone with more rank, usually a woman toward a man, for a special dispensation. It seemed to her that Jondalar was trying to say he was grateful to her for riding on Whinney.
“Jondalar, Whinney allowed you to sit on her back. Why do you thank me?”
“You helped me ride her, Ayla. And besides, I have so much more to thank you for. You’ve done so much for me, taken care of me.”
“Would the colt say thank you to Whinney for taking care of him? You were in need, I took care of you. Why … ‘thank you’?”
“But you sa
ved my life.”
“I am a woman who heals, Jondalar.” She tried to think of a way to explain that when someone saved another’s life, a piece of the life spirit was claimed, and, therefore, the obligation of protecting that person in return; in effect, the two became closer than siblings. But she was a medicine woman, and a piece of everyone’s spirit had been given to her with the piece of black manganese dioxide that she carried in her amulet. No one was obligated to give her more. “Thank you is not necessary,” she said.
“I know it is not necessary. I know you are a Woman Who Heals, but it is important to me that you know how I feel. People say thank you to each other for help. It’s courtesy, a custom.”
They ascended the path single file. She didn’t answer him, but his comment made her think of Creb trying to explain that it was discourteous to look past the boundary stones into another man’s hearth. She had had more difficulty learning the customs than the language of the Clan. Jondalar was saying it was a custom to express gratitude to each other among his people, a courtesy, but that confused her more.
Why would he want to express gratitude when he had just shamed her? If a man of the Clan had offered her such contempt, she would cease to exist for him. His customs were going to be hard to learn, too, she realized, but that did not make her feel less humiliated.
He tried to get through the barrier that had sprung up between them and stopped her before she went into the cave. “Ayla, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way.”
“Offended? I don’t understand that word.”
“I think I have made you angry, made you feel bad.”
“Not angry, but yes, you have made me feel bad.”
The admission startled him. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry. That is courtesy, right? Custom? Jondalar, what good are words like sorry? It doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
He pulled his hand through his hair. She was right. Whatever he had done—and he thought he knew what it was—being sorry didn’t help. It also didn’t help that he had been evading the issue, not facing it directly for fear he would open himself to further embarrassment.
She went into the cave, took off her picking basket, and stirred up the fire to begin an evening meal. He followed her, put his basket next to hers, and pulled up a mat to the fireplace to sit and watch her.
She used some of the tools he had given her after he cut up the deer, and liked them, but for some tasks she preferred to use the handheld knife she was accustomed to. He thought she wielded the crude knife, shaped on flake of flint that was much heavier than his blades, with as much skill as anyone he knew used with the smaller, finer, hafted knives. His flint-knapper mind was judging, evaluating, comparing the merits of each type. It’s not so much that one is easier to use than the other, he was thinking. Any sharp knife will cut, but think how much more raw flint it must take to make tools for everyone. Just hauling the stone could be a problem.
It made Ayla nervous to have him sitting there watching her so closely. Finally she got up to get some chamomile for tea, hoping it would divert his attention, and to calm herself. It only made him realize he had been putting off facing the problem again. He gathered up his fortitude and decided on a direct approach.
“You’re right, Ayla. Saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean much, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what I did that offended you. Please tell me, why do you feel bad?”
He must be saying words that were untrue again, she thought. How could he not know? Yet he seemed troubled. She looked down, wishing he hadn’t asked. It was bad enough having to suffer such humiliation, without having to talk about it. But he had asked.
“I feel bad because … because I’m not acceptable.” She said it to the hands in her lap holding her tea.
“What do you mean you are not acceptable? I don’t understand.”
Why was he asking her these questions? Was he trying to make her feel worse? Ayla glanced up at him. He was leaning forward, and she read sincerity and anxiety in his posture and eyes.
“No man of the Clan would ever relieve his need himself if there was an acceptable woman around.” She blushed with the recitation of her failing and looked down at her hands. “You were full with need, but you ran away from me. Should I not feel bad if I am not acceptable to you?”
“Are you saying you’re offended because I didn’t …” He sat back and looked up. “Oh, Doni! How could you be so stupid, Jondalar?” he asked the cave at large.
She looked up at him, startled.
“I thought you didn’t want me to annoy you, Ayla. I was trying to respect your wishes. I wanted you so much, I couldn’t stand it, but every time I touched you, you stiffened up. How could you think any man would not find you acceptable?”
A surge of understanding welled up inside her that dissolved the taut aching heart. He wanted her! He thought she didn’t want him! It was customs again, different customs. “Jondalar, you only had to make the signal. Why did it matter what I wanted?”
“Of course it matters what you want. Don’t you …” Suddenly he flushed. “Don’t you want me?” There was hesitation in his eyes, and fear of rejection. She knew the feeling. It surprised her to see it in a man, but it melted any residual doubt she might have harbored and drew forth a warmth and tenderness.
“I want you, Jondalar, I wanted you when I first saw you. When you were so hurt I wasn’t sure you would live, I would look at you and feel … Inside would come this feeling. But you never gave me the signal.…” She looked down again. She had said more than she intended. Women of the Clan were more subtle in their inviting gestures.
“And all this time I’ve been thinking … What is this signal you keep talking about?”
“In the Clan, when a man wants a woman, he makes the signal.”
“Show me.”
She made the gesture and blushed. It was not a signal usually made by a woman.
“That’s all? I just do that? Then what do you do?” He was a little stunned when she got up, kneeled, and presented.
“Are you saying a man does this, and a woman does that, and that’s it? They’re ready?”
“A man doesn’t make the signal if he’s not ready. Weren’t you ready today?”
It was his turn to blush. He had forgotten how ready he was, what he had done to keep from forcing himself on her. He would have given anything then to have known this signal.
“What if a woman doesn’t want him? Or she’s not ready?”
“If a man makes the signal, a woman must assume the position.” She thought of Broud, and her face clouded with remembered pain and degradation.
“Anytime, Ayla?” He saw the pain, and wondered. “Even her first?” She nodded. “Is that how it happened for you? Some man just gave you a signal?” She closed her eyes and swallowed, then nodded again.
Jondalar was aghast, and indignant. “Do you mean to say there were no First Rites? No one to watch and make sure a man didn’t hurt you too much? What kind of people are they? Don’t they care about a young woman’s first time? They just leave it to any man to take her when he’s high in his heat? To force her whether she’s ready or not? Whether it hurts or not?” He was up and angrily pacing. “That’s cruel! That’s inhuman! How could anyone allow it? Don’t they have any compassion? Don’t they care at all?”
His outburst was so unexpected that Ayla just sat staring wide-eyed, watching Jondalar work himself up into a fever of righteous wrath. But as his words became more vituperative, she started shaking her head, negating his statements.
“No!” she said, finally giving voice to her dissent. “That’s not true, Jondalar. They do care! Iza found me—she took care of me. They adopted me, made me part of the Clan, even though I was born to the Others. They didn’t have to take me in.
“Creb didn’t understand that Broud hurt me, he never had a mate. He didn’t know about women that way and it was Broud’s right. And when I got pregnant, Iza t
ook care of me. She made herself sick getting medicine for me so I wouldn’t lose my baby. Without her, I would have died when Durc was born. And Brun accepted him, even though everyone thought he was deformed. But he wasn’t. He’s strong and healthy …” Ayla stopped when she saw Jondalar staring at her.
“You have a son? Where is he?”
Ayla hadn’t spoken of her son. Even after so long a time, it was painful to talk about him. She knew any mention would cause questions, though eventually it would have come up.
“Yes, I have a son. He is still with the Clan. I gave him to Uba when Broud made me leave.”
“Made you leave?” He sat back down. So she had a son. He had been right in suspecting that she had been pregnant. “Why would someone make a mother leave her child? Who is this … Broud?”
How could she explain? She closed her eyes for a moment. “He’s the leader. Brun was the leader when they found me. He allowed Creb to make me Clan, but he was getting old, so he made Broud leader. Broud always hated me, even when I was a little girl.”
“He’s the one who hurt you, isn’t he?”
“Iza told me about the signal when I became a woman, but she said men relieved their needs with women they liked. Broud did it because it made him feel good to know he could make me do something I hated. But I think my totem led him to do it. The spirit of the Cave Lion knew how much I wanted a baby.”
“What does this Broud have to do with your baby? The Great Earth Mother blesses when She chooses. Was your son of his spirit?”
“Creb said spirits made babies. He said a woman swallowed the spirit of a man’s totem. If it was strong enough, it would overcome the spirit of her totem, take its life force, and start a new life growing in her.”
“That’s an odd way of looking at it. It’s the Mother who chooses the man’s spirit to mix with the woman’s spirit when She blesses a woman.”
“I don’t think spirits make babies. Not spirits of totems, or spirits mixed by your Great Mother. I think life starts when a man’s organ is full and he puts it inside a woman. I think that’s why men have such strong needs, and why women want men so much.”