Plains of Passage (18 page)

“Some trees always grow near rivers, but I haven’t seen trees like these since I left the Clan. Isn’t this a strange place for them to be?”

“It is unusual. This place reminds me of the land of the Sharamudoi, but that’s south of here, even south of those mountains we see to the west, and near Donau, the Great Mother River.”

Suddenly Ayla stopped where she was. Nudging Jondalar, she silently pointed. At first he didn’t see what had caught her attention, then he noticed a slight movement of a foxy-red coat, and saw the three-pronged antlers of a roe deer. The commotion and the smell of wolf had caused the small wary deer to freeze. It had stood without moving, hidden in the brush, waiting to see if there was anything to fear from the predator. With the four-legged hunter gone, it had cautiously begun to move away. Jondalar’s spear and spear-thrower were still in his
right hand. He raised it slowly, and taking aim, hurled the spear at the throat of the animal. The danger it feared had come from an unexpected direction. The hard-flung spear landed true. Even as it hit, the roe deer attempted to leap away, took a few bounding steps, then crashed to the ground.

The flight of the squirrel and the unsuccessful sable were quickly forgotten. Jondalar crossed the distance to the roe deer in a few steps, with Ayla beside him. While Ayla turned the head, he knelt down beside the still struggling animal and slit its throat with his sharp blade to finish it off quickly and let it bleed. Then he stood up.

“Roe Deer, when your spirit returns to the Great Earth Mother, thank Her for giving us one of your kind, that we may eat,” Jondalar said quietly.

Ayla, standing beside the man, nodded, then prepared to help him skin and butcher their dinner.

I
hate to leave the hide. Roe deer makes such soft leather,” Ayla said as she put the last piece of meat in her parfleche, “and did you see the fur on that sable?”

“But we don’t have time to make leather, and we can’t take much more with us than we already have,” Jondalar said. He was erecting the tripod of poles from which the parfleche full of meat would be suspended.

“I know, but I still hate to leave it.”

They hung the parfleche; then Ayla glanced toward the fireplace, thinking about the food she had just put on to cook, though nothing was apparent. It was cooking in a ground oven, a hole in the ground lined with hot rocks into which she had put the deer meat seasoned with herbs, along with mushrooms, bracken fern fiddleheads, and cattail roots she had gathered, all wrapped in coltsfoot leaves. She then added more hot rocks on top and a layer of dirt. It would be a while before it was done, but she was glad they had stopped early enough—and had been lucky enough to get fresh meat soon enough—to cook it that way. It was a favorite method since it made food both flavorful and tender.

“I’m hot and the air feels heavy and humid. I’m going to go and cool off,” she said. “I’m even going to wash my hair. I saw some soaproot growing downstream. Are you going to come for a swim?”

“Yes, I think I will. I may even wash my hair, if you can find enough of that soaproot for me,” Jondalar said, his blue eyes crinkling with a smile as he held up a lank strand of greasy blond hair that had fallen across his forehead.

They walked side by side along the broad sandy bank of the river. Wolf bounded after them, running in and out of brush, exploring new scents. Then he dashed ahead and disappeared around a bend.

Jondalar noticed the trail of horse hooves and wolf track they had made earlier. “I wonder what someone would make of spoor like this,” he said, grinning at the thought.

“What would you make of it?” Ayla asked.

“If Wolf’s track was clear, I’d think a wolf was trailing two horses, but
in some places it’s obvious that the horse prints are on top of the wolf prints, so he can’t have been following. He was walking with them. That would confuse a tracker,” he said.

“Even if Wolf’s prints were clear, I’d wonder why a wolf was following these two horses. The tracks show they are both strong and healthy, but look at the impression, how deep it is, and the set of the hooves. You can tell they’re carrying weight,” Ayla said.

“That would confuse a tracker, too.”

“Oh, there they are,” Ayla said, seeing the rather tall, somewhat straggling plants with light pink flowers and leaves shaped like spear points, that she had noticed earlier. With her digging stick she quickly loosened several roots and pulled them out.

On their way back, she searched for a flat, hard stone or piece of wood, and a rounded stone to crush the soaproot and release the saponin, which would foam into a light cleansing lather in the water. At a bend, upstream but not too far from their campsite, the small river had scoured out a waist-deep pool. The water was cool and refreshing, and after washing, they explored the rocky river, swimming and wading farther upstream until they were stopped by a churning waterfall and swift rapids where the sloping sides of the valley narrowed and became steeper.

It reminded Ayla of the small river in her valley, with its fuming, churning waterfall blocking her way upstream, though the rest of the area made her think more of the mountain slopes around the cave where she grew up. There was a waterfall there that she remembered, a gentler, mossy one that had led her to a small cave she had claimed as her own, and that had more than once offered her a haven.

They let the current carry them back, splashing each other and laughing along the way. Ayla loved the sound of Jondalar’s laughter. Though he smiled, he didn’t laugh often, tending instead to exhibit a more serious demeanor, but when he did, it was such a big, hearty, exuberant laugh, it came as a surprise.

When they got out and dried off, it was still warm. The dark cloud Ayla had noticed earlier was gone from the sky above them, but the sun was lowering toward a black and brooding mass languishing in the west, whose ponderous movement was emphasized by a ragged layer streaming swiftly beneath it in the other direction. Once the fireball dropped behind the somber clouds and banked above the western ridge, it would cool off fast. Ayla looked for the horses and saw them in an open meadow on the slope, some distance from camp, but within range of a whistle. Wolf was not in sight; still exploring downstream, she assumed.

She got out the long-toothed ivory comb and a brush made of stiff mammoth-hair bristles that Deegie had given her, then pulled their sleeping roll out of the tent and spread it out to sit on while she combed her hair. Jondalar sat beside her and began to comb his own hair with a three-pronged comb, struggling with some tangles.

“Let me do that for you, Jondalar,” she said, getting up on her knees behind him. She combed loose the knots in his long, straight yellow hair, a lighter shade than hers, admiring the color. When she was younger, her hair had been almost white, but it had become somewhat darker and resembled Whinney’s coat with its ashy golden hue.

Jondalar closed his eyes while Ayla worked on his hair, but he was aware of her warm presence behind him as her bare skin brushed against his now and then, and by the time she was through, he was feeling a warmth from more than the sun.

“Now it’s my turn to comb your hair,” he said, getting up to move behind her. For a moment, she thought about objecting. It wasn’t necessary. He didn’t have to comb her hair just because she had combed his, but when he lifted her thick hair off her neck and pulled it through his fingers, like a caress, she acquiesced.

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 down, 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 naval 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.