The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  She sat up and took a drink, then got up. “I have to go out,” she said. “Are many people still up? I don’t want to get dressed.”

  “People still dancing, still early. Maybe should use box.”

  As she walked back to the bed, he watched her. O Mother! She was a beautiful woman, her features so lovely, her hair so soft. Her legs were long and graceful, her buttocks small but well formed. Her breasts were small, tight, well shaped, with high jutting nipples—a girl’s breasts still. A few stretch marks on her stomach were the only sign of her motherhood, and the few lines etched at the corners of her eyes the only sign of her years.

  “I thought you’d be back late—it’s Festival,” she said.

  “Why you here? You not say ‘no commitment’?”

  “I didn’t meet anyone interesting, and I was tired.”

  “You interesting … I not tired,” he said, smiling. He took her in his arms and kissed her warm mouth, his tongue questing, and pulled her close to him. She felt a hard hot throbbing against her stomach, and a flood of warmth washed over her.

  He had meant to prolong it, to keep himself controlled until she was more than ready, but he found himself hungrily at her mouth, her neck, sucking and pulling on her nipples while she held his head to her breast. His hand reached for her furry mound and found her hot and moist. A small cry escaped her lips as he touched the small hard organ within her warm folds. She raised up and pressed herself to him as he caressed the place which he knew gave her pleasure.

  He sensed what she wanted this time. They shifted position—he rolled to one side, she to her back. She lifted one leg over his hip, moved the other between his legs, and, while he fondled and massaged her center of pleasure, she reached down to guide his eager manhood into her deep cleft. She cried out with passion as he penetrated, and she felt the exquisite excitement of both sensations at once.

  He felt her warmth envelop him, moving into her as she ground down on him, trying to take him all. He pulled back and surged into her again, until he could go no farther. She raised to his hand, and he rubbed harder as he plunged into her again. He was so full, so ready, and she was crying out as her tensions rose. She pushed down on him; he felt his loins tighten. He massaged hard and drove in, and then again, and then surging powerful waves pulled them together as they reached an unbearable peak and were flooded with glorious release. A last few strokes extracted a shudder and complete fulfillment.

  They lay still, breathing hard, their legs still entwined. She pushed herself down on him. Only now, before he became flaccid, but was no longer fully engorged, could she finally take all of him within herself. He always seemed to give her more than she could give him. He didn’t want to move—he could almost go to sleep, but didn’t want to sleep either. Finally he withdrew his spent member and curled up around her. She was lying still, but he knew she wasn’t asleep.

  He let his mind wander, and he suddenly found himself thinking about Cherunio, and Radonio, and all the other young women. What would it have been like to be with all of them? To feel all those warm, nubile, female bodies surrounding him, with their warm thighs, and their round bottoms, and their moist wells. To have the breast of one in his mouth, and each hand exploring two other women’s bodies. He was feeling a renewed twinge of excitement. Why had he pushed them away? Sometimes he could really be stupid.

  He looked at the woman beside him and wondered how long it would take to make her ready again, then breathed in her ear. She smiled at him. He kissed her neck, and then her mouth. It would be slower this time, he would take his time. She is a beautiful, wonderful woman … why can’t I fall in love?

  13

  Ayla had a problem when she reached the valley. She had planned to butcher and dry her meat on the beach, sleeping out as she had done before. But the wounded cave lion cub could only be taken care of properly in the cave. The cub was larger than a fox and much stockier, but she could carry him. A full-grown deer was another story. The points of the two spears trailing behind Whinney, that were the support poles of the travois, were spaced too far apart to fit the narrow path up to the cave. She didn’t know how she was going to get her hard-won deer up to the cave, and she didn’t dare leave it unattended on the beach, with hyenas following so close.

  She was right to be concerned. Just in the short span of time it took to carry the baby lion up to the cave, hyenas were snarling over the grass-mat-covered deer still on the travois, in spite of Whinney’s nervous sidestepping. Ayla’s sling was in action before she was halfway down, and one hard-flung stone was fatal. She dragged the hyena by a hind paw around the stone wall and into the meadow, though she hated touching the animal. He smelled of the carrion he had last fed on, and she washed her hands in the stream before she turned her attention to the horse.

  Whinney was shivering and sweating, and swishing her tail in a state of nervous agitation. It had been almost more than she could abide to have the scent of cave lion so close. Even worse was the smell of hyena on her trail. She had tried to circle when the animals attempted to close in on Ayla’s kill, but one leg of the travois had caught in a cleft of rock. She was close to panic.

  “This has been a hard day for you, hasn’t it, Whinney?” Ayla signaled, then wrapped her arms around the mare’s neck and simply held her, the way she would a frightened child. Whinney leaned against her and shook, breathing hard through her nose, but the young woman’s closeness finally calmed her. The horse had always been treated with love and patience, and gave trust and willing effort in return.

  Ayla started dismantling the makeshift travois, still not sure how she was going to get the deer up to the cave, but as one pole was loosened, it swung closer to the other, so that the two points of the former spears were quite close. Her problem had solved itself. She refastened the pole so it would stay, then led Whinney toward the path. The load was unstable, but there was only a short distance to go.

  It was more of an effort for Whinney; the reindeer and the horse were of fairly equal weight, and the path was steep. The task gave Ayla a new appreciation of the horse’s strength and an insight into the benefit she had garnered in borrowing it. When they reached the stone porch, Ayla removed all the encumbrances and hugged the young mare gratefully. She went into the cave, expecting Whinney to follow, then turned back at the horse’s anxious neigh.

  “What’s wrong?” she signaled.

  The cave lion cub was exactly where she had left him. The cub! she thought. Whinney smells the cub. She went back out.

  “It’s all right, Whinney. That baby can’t hurt you.” She rubbed Whinney’s soft nose and, putting an arm around the sturdy neck, gently urged the horse into the cave. Trust in the woman again overcame fear. Ayla led the horse to the small lion. Whinney cautiously sniffed, backed off and nickered, then lowered her muzzle to sniff the unmoving cub again. The smell of predator was there, but the young lion offered no harm. Whinney sniffed and nudged the cub again, then seemed to make up her mind to accept the new addition to the cave. She walked to her place and began feeding on hay.

  Ayla turned her attention to the wounded baby. He was a fuzzy little creature, with faint tan spots on a lighter pale beige background. He seemed quite young, but Ayla wasn’t sure. Cave lions were predators of the steppes; she had only studied carnivorous animals that lived in the wooded regions near the cave of the clan. She had never hunted the open plains then.

  She tried to remember everything the clan hunters had said about cave lions. This one seemed to be a lighter shade than the ones she had seen, and she recalled that the men had often warned the women that cave lions were difficult to see. They matched the color of the dried grass and dusty ground so well that you could almost stumble over one. An entire pride, sleeping in the shade of brush, or among the stones and outcrops near their dens, looked like boulders—even from very close.

  When she thought about it, the steppes in this area did seem to be a lighter shade of beige in overall tone, and the lions nearby certainly blende
d into the background well. She hadn’t stopped to consider it before, but it seemed logical that they should have lighter-colored fur than the ones to the south. Perhaps she ought to spend some time studying cave lions.

  With a deft, knowledgeable touch, the young medicine woman probed to discover the extent of the cub’s injuries. One rib was broken but didn’t threaten to cause other damage. Spasms of contraction and little mewling sounds indicated where he hurt; he might have internal injuries. The worst problem was an open wound on his head, no doubt caused by a hard hoof.

  Her fire had long since burned out, but it was no longer a concern. She had come to depend on her firestones, and she could start a fire very quickly if she had good tinder. She started water boiling, then wrapped a leather band smoothly and tightly around the baby cave lion’s ribs. As she peeled the dark brown skin off the comfrey roots she had picked on the way back, a glutinous mucilage oozed out. She put marigold flowers in the boiling water, and, when the liquid turned golden, she dipped in a soft absorbent skin to wash the cub’s head wound.

  Soaking off the dried blood caused bleeding again, and she saw that his skull was cracked, but not crushed. She chopped the white comfrey root and applied the gummy substance directly to the wound—it stopped the bleeding and would help heal the bone—then wrapped it with more soft leather. She hadn’t known what use she might find for them when she cured the hides of nearly every animal she had killed, but in her wildest imagination she never would have dreamed the use to which some had just been put.

  Wouldn’t Brun be surprised to see me, she thought, smiling. He never allowed animals that hunted, he wouldn’t even let me bring that little wolf cub into the cave. Now look at me, with a lion cub! I think I’m going to learn a lot about cave lions in a hurry—if he lives.

  She set more water to boil for a comfrey-leaf and chamomile tea, though she didn’t know how she was going to get the internally healing medicine into the baby lion. She left the cub then and went out to skin the reindeer. When the first thin, tongue-shaped slices of meat were ready to hang, she was suddenly at a loss. There was no layer of soil on top of the stone ledge, nothing into which she could sink the sticks she used to string her cords across. She hadn’t even thought of that when she was so concerned about bringing the deer carcass up to the cave. Why was it the small things that always seemed to stymie her? Nothing could be taken for granted.

  In her frustration, she couldn’t think of any solution. She was tired, and overwrought, and anxious about bringing a cave lion home. She wasn’t sure she should have, and what was she going to do with him? She threw down the stick and got up. Walking to the far end of the porch, she looked out over the valley while the wind blew in her face. What could she be thinking of—to bring a baby lion back that would need care, when she should be getting ready to leave and continue her search for the Others? Maybe she should just take him back out to the steppes now, and let him go the way of all weakened animals in the wild. Had living alone made her stop thinking straight? She didn’t know how to take care of him, anyway. How would she feed him? And what would happen if he did recover? She couldn’t send him back to the steppes then; his mother would never take him back, he would die. If she was going to keep the cub, she’d have to stay in the valley. To continue her search, she’d have to take him back to the steppes.

  She went back into the cave and stood over the young cave lion. He still hadn’t moved. She felt his chest. He was warm and breathing, and his fuzzy coat reminded her of Whinney’s when she was a baby. He was cute, and he looked so funny with his head bandaged up that she had to smile. But that cute baby is going to become a very large lion, she reminded herself. She stood up and looked down at him again. It didn’t matter. There was no way she could take that baby out to the steppes to die.

  She went back out and stared at the meat. If she was going to stay in the valley, she would have to start thinking about storing food again. Especially since she had another mouth to feed. She picked up the stick, trying to think of some way to make it stay upright. She noticed a mound of crumbled rock along the back wall near the far edge, and she tried poking the stick into it. The piece of wood stayed upright, but it would never support the weight of strings of meat. It did give her an idea though. She went into the cave, grabbed a basket, and ran down to the beach.

  After some experimenting, she discovered that a pyramid of beach stones would support a longer stick. She made several trips to gather stones and cut suitable pieces of wood before she was able to string several lines across the ledge to dry the meat and could go back to the business of cutting it. She built a small fire near the place she was working and spitted a rump to roast for dinner, thinking again about how she was going to feed the cub, and how she was going to get the medicine down him. What she needed was lion baby food.

  Young ones could eat the same food as adults, she recalled, but it had to be softer, easier to chew and swallow. Perhaps a meat broth, with the meat cut up very fine. She had done that for Durc, why not for the cub? In fact, why not cook the broth in the tea she had infused for medicine?

  She set to work immediately, cutting up the piece of deer meat she picked up next. She brought it inside to put into the wooden cooking pot, then decided to add a little of the leftover comfrey root as well. The cub hadn’t stirred, but she thought he was resting easier.

  Some time later, she thought she heard sounds of stirring and went back to check on him again. He was awake, mewling softly, unable to roll over and get up—but when she approached the oversize kitten, he snarled and hissed and tried to back away. Ayla smiled and dropped down beside him.

  Frightened little thing, she thought. I don’t blame you. Waking up in a strange den, hurting, and then seeing someone not at all like mother and siblings. She stretched out a hand. Here, I won’t hurt you. Ow! Your little teeth are sharp! Go ahead, little one. Taste my hand, get the smell of me. It will make it easier to get used to me. I’ll have to be your mother now. Even if I knew where your den was, your mother wouldn’t know how to take care of you—if she’d even take you back. I don’t know much about cave lions, but I didn’t know much about horses either. A baby is a baby, though. Are you hungry? I can’t give you milk. I hope you’re going to like broth and meat cut up fine. And the medicine should make you feel better.

  She got up to check the cooking bowl. She was rather surprised at the thickened consistency of the cooled broth, and when she stirred it with a rib bone, she found the meat compacted into a lump at the bottom of the bowl. Finally, she poked it with a sharpened skewer and lifted out a congealed mass of meat, with thick viscid liquid hanging down in strings. Suddenly she understood, and she burst out laughing. It frightened the cub so much that he almost found strength enough to get up.

  No wonder that comfrey root is so good for wounds. If it holds torn flesh together as well as it has glued this meat together, it’s bound to help healing!

  “Baby, do you think you can drink some of this?” she motioned to the cave lion. She poured some of the cooled gummy liquid into a smaller birchbark eating dish. The cub had squirmed off the grass mat and was struggling to get up. She put the dish under his nose. He hissed at her and backed away.

  Ayla heard the clatter of hooves coming up the path, and a moment later Whinney came in. She noticed the cub, very much awake and moving now, and went to investigate. She lowered her head to sniff the fuzzy creature. The young cave lion, who as an adult could instill terror in one of Whinney’s kind, was instead terrified by yet another unfamiliar large animal looming near. He spit and snarled and backed away until he was almost in Ayla’s lap. He felt the warmth of her leg, remembered a smell a little more familiar, and huddled there. There were just too many strange new things in this place.

  Ayla lifted the baby lion to her lap, cuddled him, and made humming sounds—the way she would have soothed any baby. The way she had soothed her own.

  It’s all right. You’ll get used to us. Whinney shook her head and nickered. The
cave lion in Ayla’s arms didn’t seem threatening, though her instincts told her that scent ought to be. She had changed behavior patterns before for the woman, by living with her. Perhaps this particular cave lion could be tolerated.

  The young animal responded to Ayla’s petting and cuddling by nuzzling around for a place to nurse. You are hungry, aren’t you, baby? She reached for the dish of thick broth and held it under the cub’s nose. He smelled it, but didn’t know what to do with it. She dipped two fingers in the bowl, put them in his mouth. He knew what to do then. Like any baby, he sucked.

  As she sat in her small cave, holding the cave lion cub, rocking back and forth as he suckled her two fingers, Ayla was so overcome with the memory of her son that she didn’t notice the tears running down her face and dripping on the fuzzy fur.

  A bond was formed in those first days—and nights when she took the baby lion to her bed to cuddle and suckle her fingers—between the lonely young woman and the cave lion cub; a bond that could never have formed between the cub and its natural mother. The ways of nature were harsh, particularly for the young of the mightiest of predators. While the lion mother would suckle her cubs during their early weeks—and even allow them to nurse, occasionally, for six months—from the time they first opened their eyes, lion cubs began eating meat. But the hierarchy of feeding in a pride of lions allowed no sentimentality.

  The lioness was the hunter, and, unlike other members of the feline family, she hunted in a cooperative group. Three or four lionesses together were a formidable hunting team; they could bring down a healthy giant deer, or a bull aurochs in its prime. Only a full-grown mammoth was immune to attack, though the young and the old were susceptible. But the lioness didn’t hunt for her young, she hunted for the male. The lead male always got the lion’s share. As soon as he appeared, the lionesses gave way, and only after he gorged did the females take their share. The older adolescent lions were next, and only then, if there was any left, did the young cubs get a chance to squabble over scraps.