by Jean M. Auel
Then the old woman looked at Jondalar again, smiled, and reached a knobby finger to touch his spent member. He felt a moment of renewed excitement, saw it try to spring to life again, then go soft. Haduma chuckled softly, then hobbled out of the tent, leaving them alone.
Jondalar relaxed beside Noria. After a while, she sat up and looked down at him with glowing, languorous eyes.
“Jondalar man, Noria woman,” she said, as though she truly felt she was a woman now, and leaned over to kiss him. He was surprised to feel a stir of excitement so soon, and wondered if Haduma’s touch had anything to do with it. He forgot to wonder as he took his time showing the eager young woman ways to please him, and giving new pleasure to her.
The giant sturgeon was already beached by the time Jondalar got up. Thonolan had poked his head in the tent earlier, showing him a couple of gaffs, but Jondalar had waved him off, wrapped his arm around Noria, and gone back to sleep. When he woke up later, Noria was gone. He slipped on his trousers and walked toward the river. He watched Thonolan, Jeren, and several others laughing in newfound camaraderie, rather wishing he had fished with them.
“Well, look who decided to get up,” Thonolan said when he saw him. “Leave it to blue eyes to lie around while everyone else is fighting to haul that old Haduma out of the water.”
Jeren caught the phrase. “Haduma! Haduma!” he shouted, laughing and pointing at the fish. He pranced around it, then stood in front of its primitive, sharklike head. The feelers sprouting out of the lower jaw attested to its bottom-feeding habits and harmlessness, but its size alone had made it a challenge. It was well over fifteen feet long.
With a roguish grin, the young hunter moved his pelvis back and forth in erotic mimicry at the nose of the great old fish, shouting, “Haduma! Haduma!” as though begging to be touched. The rest of them broke up in gales of bawdy laughter, and even Jondalar smiled. The others started dancing around the fish, shaking their pelvises and shouting “Haduma!” and, with high spirits, began pushing each other aside, vying for the spot at the head. One man was shoved into the river. He waded back, grabbed the nearest one, and pulled him in. Soon they were all pushing each other into the water, Thonolan right in the thick of it.
He splashed up on the bank soaking wet, spied his brother, and grabbed him. “Don’t think you’re going to get away dry!” he said as Jondalar resisted. “Come on, Jeren, let’s give blue eyes a dunking!”
Jeren heard his name, saw the struggle, and came running. The others followed. Pulling and pushing, they dragged Jondalar to the river’s edge, and all ended up in the water, laughing. They came out dripping, still grinning, until one of them noticed the old woman standing by the fish.
“Haduma, eh?” she said, fixing them with a severe stare. They gave each other surreptitious glances and looked sheepish. Then she cackled delightedly, stood at the head of the fish, and wagged her old hips back and forth. They laughed and ran toward her, each man getting down on hands and knees and begging her to get on his back.
Jondalar smiled at the game they had obviously played with her before. Her tribe not only revered their ancient ancestress, they loved her, and she seemed to enjoy their fun. Haduma looked around and, seeing Jondalar, pointed at him. The men waved him over, and he noticed the care with which they helped her onto his back. He stood up carefully. She weighed almost nothing, but he was surprised at the strength of her grip. The fragile old woman still had a certain toughness.
He started walking, but the rest were racing ahead, and she pounded his shoulder, urging him on. They ran up and down the beach until they were all out of breath, and then Jondalar got down to let her off. She straightened herself, found her staff, and, with great dignity, headed toward the tents.
“Can you believe that old woman?” Jondalar said to Thonolan with admiration. “Sixteen children, five generations, and she’s still going strong. I don’t doubt that she will live to see her sixth generation.”
“She live see six generation, then she die.”
Jondalar turned at the voice. He hadn’t seen Tamen approach. “What do you mean, then she die?”
“Haduma say, Noria make blue-eye son, Zelandonii spirit, then Haduma die. She say, long time here, time go. See baby, then die. Baby name, Jondal, six generation Hadumai. Haduma happy Zelandonii man. Say good man. Pleasure woman First Rites not easy, Zelandonii man, good man.”
Jondalar was filled with mixed emotions. “If it is her wish to go, she will, but it makes me sad,” he said.
“Yes, all Hadumai much sad,” Tamen said.
“Can I see Noria again, so soon after First Rites? Just for a while? I don’t know your customs.”
“Custom, no. Haduma say yes. You go soon?”
“If Jeren says the sturgeon pays our obligation for chasing off the horses, I think we should. How did you know?”
“Haduma say.”
The camp feasted on sturgeon in the evening, and many hands had made short work of cutting strips for drying earlier in the afternoon. Jondalar glimpsed Noria once from a distance as she was escorted by several women to some place farther upstream. It was after dark before she was led to see him. They walked together toward the river, with two women following discreetly behind. It broke custom enough for her to see him immediately after First Rites; alone would be too much.
They stood by a tree not saying anything, her head bowed. He moved aside a tendril of hair and lifted her chin to look at him. She had tears in her eyes. Jondalar wiped a glistening drop from the corner of her eye with a knuckle, then brought it to his lips.
“Oh … Jondalar,” she cried, reaching for him.
He held her, kissed her gently, then more passionately.
“Noria,” he said. “Noria woman, beautiful woman.”
“Jondalar make Noria woman,” she said. “Make … Noria … Make …” She heaved a sob, wishing she knew the words to tell him what she wanted to say.
“I know, Noria. I know,” he said, holding her. Then he stood back holding her shoulders, smiled at her and patted her stomach. She smiled through her tears.
“Noria make Zelandonyee.…” She touched his eyelid. “Noria make Jondal … Haduma.…”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Tamen told me. Jondal, sixth-generation Hadumai.” He reached into his pouch. “I have something I want to give you, Noria.” He took out the stone donii and put it in her hand. He wished there were some way to tell her how special it was to him, to tell her his mother had given it to him, to tell her how old it was, how it had been passed down for many generations. Then he smiled. “This donii is my Haduma,” he said. “Jondalar’s Haduma. Now, it is Noria’s Haduma.”
“Jondalar Haduma?” she said with wonder, looking at the carved female shape. “Jondalar Haduma, Noria?”
He nodded, and she burst into tears, clutched it in both hands, and brought it to her lips. “Jondalar Haduma,” she said, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Suddenly she threw her arms around him and kissed him, then ran back toward the tents, crying so hard that she could barely see her way.
The whole camp turned out to see them off. Haduma was standing beside Noria when Jondalar stopped in front of them. Haduma was smiling, nodding approval, but tears were rolling down Noria’s cheeks. He reached for one, brought it to his mouth, and she smiled, though it didn’t check her tears. He turned to go, but not before he saw the curly-haired young man Jeren had sent as a runner looking at Noria with lovesick eyes.
She was a woman now and blessed by Haduma, assured of bringing a lucky child to a man’s hearth. It was common talk that she had known pleasure at First Rites, and everyone knew such women made the best mates. Noria was eminently matable, utterly desirable.
“Do you really think Noria is pregnant with a child of your spirit?” Thonolan asked after they left the camp behind.
“I’ll never know, but that Haduma is a wise old woman. She knows more than anyone can guess. I think she does have ‘big magic.’ If anyone could make it happen, she could.”
<
br /> They walked in silence beside the river for a while, then Thonolan said, “Big Brother, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“What magic do you have? I mean, every man talks about being chosen for First Rites, but it really scares a lot of them. I know a couple who have turned it down, and to be honest, I always feel clumsy. I’d never turn it down, though. But you, you get chosen all the time. And I’ve never seen it fail. They all fall in love with you. How do you do it? I’ve watched you rut around at festivals; I can’t see anything special.”
“I don’t know, Thonolan,” he said, a little embarrassed. “I just try to be careful.”
“What man doesn’t? It’s more than that. What was it Tamen said? ‘Pleasure woman First Rites not easy.’ How do you give a woman pleasure then? I’m just happy if I don’t hurt her too much. And it’s not like you’re undersized or anything to make it easier. Come on, give your little brother some advice. I wouldn’t mind a bunch of young beauties following me around.”
He slowed and looked at Thonolan. “Yes you would. I think that’s one of the reasons I got myself promised to Marona, so I’d have an excuse.” Jondalar’s forehead furrowed. “First Rites are special for a woman. They are for me, too. But a lot of young women are still girls in some ways. They haven’t learned the difference between running after boys and inviting a man. How do you tactfully tell a young woman, whom you’ve just spent a very special night with, that you’d rather relax with a more experienced woman, when she’s cornered you alone? Great Doni, Thonolan! I don’t want to hurt them, but I don’t fall in love with every woman I spend a night with.”
“You don’t fall in love at all, Jondalar.”
Jondalar started walking faster. “What do you mean? I’ve loved a lot of women.”
“Loved them, yes. That’s not the same thing.”
“How would you know? Have you ever been in love?”
“A few times. Maybe it hasn’t lasted, but I know the difference. Look, Brother, I don’t want to pry, but I worry about you, especially when you get moody. And you don’t have to run. I’ll shut up if you want me to.”
Jondalar slowed down. “So, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve never fallen in love. Maybe it’s not in me to fall in love.”
“What’s missing? What don’t the women you know have?”
“If I knew, don’t you think …” he began angrily. Then he paused. “I don’t know, Thonolan. I guess I want it all. I want a woman like she is at First Rites—I think I fall in love with every woman then, at least for that night. But I want a woman, not a girl. I want her honestly eager and willing without any pretenses, but I don’t want to have to be so careful with her. I want her to have spirit, to know her own mind. I want her young and old, naïve and wise, all at the same time.”
“That’s a lot to want, Brother.”
“Well, you asked.” They walked in silence for a while.
“How old would you say Zelandoni is?” Thonolan asked. “A little younger than Mother, maybe?”
Jondalar stiffened. “Why?”
“They say she was really beautiful when she was younger, even just a few years ago. Some of the older men say no one could compare to her, not even come close. It’s hard for me to tell, but they say she’s young to be First among Those Who Serve the Mother. Tell me something, Big Brother. What they say about you and Zelandoni, is it true?”
Jondalar stopped and slowly turned to face his brother. “Tell me, what do they say about me and Zelandoni?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Sorry. I just went too far. Forget I asked.”
5
Ayla walked out of the cave and onto the stone ledge in front of it, rubbing her eyes and stretching. The sun was still low in the east and she shaded her eyes as she looked to see where the horses were. Checking the horses when she awoke in the morning had already become a habit, though she had been there only a few days. It made her solitary existence a little more bearable to think she was sharing the valley with other living creatures.
She was becoming aware of their patterns of movement, where they went for water in the morning, the shade trees they favored in the afternoon, and she was noticing individuals. There was the yearling colt whose gray coat was so light that it was almost white, except where it shaded darker along the characteristic stripe down the spine and the dark gray lower legs and stiff standing mane. And there was the dun mare with her hay-colored foal, whose coat matched the stallion’s. And then the proud leader himself, whose place would someday be taken by one of those yearlings he barely tolerated, or perhaps one of next year’s brood, or the next. The light yellow stallion, with the deep brown feral stripe, mane, and lower legs, was in his prime, and his bearing showed it.
“Good morning, horse clan,” Ayla signaled, making the gesture commonly used for any greeting purpose, with a slight nuance which shaded it to a morning greeting. “I slept late this morning. You’ve already had your morning drink—I think I’ll get mine.”
She ran lightly down to the stream, familiar enough with the steep path to be sure-footed on it. She took a drink, then doffed her wrap for her morning swim It was the same wrap, but she had washed it and worked it with her scrapers to soften the leather again. Her own natural preference for order and cleanliness had been reinforced by Iza, whose large pharmacopoeia of medicinal herbs required order to avoid misuse, and who understood the dangers of dirt and filth and infections. It was one thing to accept a certain amount of grime while traveling, when it couldn’t be avoided. But not with a sparkling stream nearby.
She ran her hands through thick blond hair that fell in waves well below her shoulders. “I’m going to wash my hair this morning,” she motioned to no one in particular. Just around the bend she had found soaproot growing, and went to pull some roots. As she strolled back looking over the stream, she noticed the large rock jutting out of the shallows with smooth saucer-shaped depressions in it. She picked up a round stone and waded out to the rock. She rinsed the roots, scooped water into a depression, and pounded the soaproot to release the rich sudsy saponin. When she had worked up the foam, she wetted her hair, rubbed it in, then washed the rest of her body and dove into the water to rinse.
A large section of the jutting wall had broken off at some time in the past. Ayla climbed out on the portion that was underwater and walked across the surface that rose above the water to a place warming in the sun. A waist-deep channel on the shoreward side made the rock an island, partly shaded by an overhanging willow whose exposed roots clutched at the stream like bony fingers. She broke a twig off a small bush whose roots had found purchase in a crack, peeled it with her teeth, and used it to pull snarls out of her hair while it dried in the sun.
She was staring dreamily into the water, humming under her breath, when a flicker of movement caught her eye. Suddenly alert, she looked into the water at the silvery shape of a large trout resting beneath the roots. I haven’t had fish since I left the cave, she thought, recalling she hadn’t had breakfast either.
Slipping silently into the water off the far side of the rock, she swam downstream a ways, then waded toward the shallows. She put her hand in the water, letting her fingers dangle, and slowly, with infinite patience, she moved back upstream. As she approached the tree, she saw the trout with its head into the current, undulating slightly to maintain itself in its place under the root.
Ayla’s eyes glistened with excitement, but she was even more cautious, placing each foot securely as she neared the fish. She moved her hand up from behind until it was just below the trout, then touched it lightly, feeling for the open gill-covers. Suddenly, she grasped the fish and, in one sure movement, lifted it out of the water and threw it on the bank. The trout flopped and struggled for a few moments, then lay still.
She smiled, pleased with herself. It had been difficult learning how to tickle a fish out of the water when she was a child, and she still felt almost as proud as she had the first time s
he succeeded. She would watch the spot, knowing it would be used by a succession of tenants. This one was big enough for more than breakfast, she thought, as she retrieved her catch—anticipating the taste of fresh trout baked on hot stones.
As her breakfast cooked, Ayla busied herself making a basket of beargrass she had picked the day before. It was a simple, utilitarian basket, but with small variations in the weaving she created a change in texture to please herself, giving it a subtle design. She worked quickly, but with such skill that the basket would be watertight. By adding hot rocks, it could be used for a cooking utensil, but that was not the purpose she had in mind for it. She was making a storage container, thinking about everything she had to do to make herself secure for the cold season ahead.
The currants I picked yesterday will be dry in a few days, she estimated, glancing at the round red berries spread out on grass mats on her front porch. By then, more will be ripe. There will be a lot of blueberries, but I won’t get much out of that scrawny little apple tree. The cherry tree is full, but they’re almost too ripe. If I’m going to get some, I’d better do it today. Sunflower seeds will be good, if the birds don’t get them all first. I think those were hazelnut bushes by the apple tree, but they’re so much smaller than the ones by the little cave, I’m not sure. I think those pine trees are the kind with the big nuts in the cones, though. I’ll check them later. Wish that fish would cook!
I should start drying greens. And lichen. And mushrooms. And roots. I won’t have to dry all the roots, some will keep for a long time in the back of the cave. Should I get more pigweed seeds? They’re so small, it never seems like much. Grain is worth the effort, though, and some seed heads in the meadow are ripe. I’ll get cherries and grain today, but I’m going to need more storage baskets. Maybe I can make some containers out of birchbark. Wish I had some rawhide to make those big cases.