The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

He held the fur around his shoulders awkwardly. It wasn’t right for him, she thought, a fur wrap. And if he’s going to leave, he should start before the season turns. She went to her sleeping place and picked up a bundle that was beside the wall.

“Jondalar … ?”

He shook his head to bring himself back to the present and smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. When she started to untie the bundle, something fell out. She picked it up.

“What is this?” she asked in tones of frightened wonder. “How did it get here?”

“It’s a donii,” Jondalar said when he saw the piece of carved ivory.

“A donii?”

“I made it for you, for your First Rites. A donii should always be present at First Rites.”

Ayla bent her head to hide a sudden rush of tears. “I don’t know what to say, I have never seen anything like this. She is beautiful. She looks real, like a person. Almost like me.”

He lifted her chin. “I meant her to look like you, Ayla. A real carver would have done it better … no. A real carver would not have made a donii like this. I’m not sure if I should have. A donii does not usually have a face—the face of the Mother is unknowable. To put your face on that donii may have trapped your spirit there. That’s why she is yours, to keep in your possession, my gift to you.”

“I wonder why you put your gift here,” Ayla said as she finished untying the bundle. “I made this for you.”

He shook out the leather, and saw the garments, and his eyes brightened. “Ayla! I didn’t know you could do sewing or beadwork,” he said, examining the clothing.

“I didn’t do the beadwork. I just made new parts for the shirt you were wearing. I took apart the other clothes so I’d know what size and shape to make the pieces, and I looked at the way they were put together so I could see how it was done. I used the sewing awl you gave me—I don’t know if I used it right, but it worked.”

“It’s perfect!” he said, holding the shirt up to himself. He tried on the trousers and then the shirt. “I’ve been thinking about making clothes for myself that would be more appropriate for traveling. A breechclout is fine for here, but …”

It was out. Spoken aloud. Like the evil ones Creb had talked about, whose power came only from the recognition they were given when their names were spoken aloud, Jondalar’s leaving had become a fact. No longer was it a vague thought that would someday come about—it had substance now. And it drew more weight as their thoughts concentrated on it, until an oppressive physical presence seemed to have entered the cave, and would not go away.

Jondalar quickly took the clothes off and folded them into a pile. “Thank you, Ayla. I can’t tell you how much these mean. When it gets colder, they will be perfect, but I don’t need them yet,” he said, and he put the breechclout on.

Ayla nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She felt a pressure in her eyes, and the ivory figurine blurred. She brought it to her breast; she loved it. It had been made with his hands. He called himself a toolmaker, but he could do so much more. His hands were skilled enough to make an image that gave her the same feeling of tenderness she had felt when he made her know what it was to be a woman.

“Thank you,” she said, remembering the courtesy.

He frowned. “Don’t ever lose it,” he said. “With your face on it, and maybe your spirit in it, it might not be safe if someone else found it.”

“My amulet holds a part of my spirit and my totem’s spirit. Now this donii holds a part of my spirit and your Earth Mother’s spirit. Does that make it my amulet, too?”

He hadn’t considered that. Was she part of the Mother now? One of Earth’s Children? Maybe he shouldn’t have tampered with forces beyond his ken. Or had he been an agent of them?

“I don’t know, Ayla,” he answered. “But don’t lose it.”

“Jondalar, if you thought it might be dangerous, why did you put my face on this donii?”

He took her hands that were holding the figure. “Because I wanted to capture your spirit, Ayla. Not to keep, I meant to give it back. I wanted to give you Pleasure, and I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know if you would understand; you were not raised to know Her. I thought putting your face on this might draw you to me.”

“You didn’t need to put my face on a donii for that. I would have been happy if you had just wanted to relieve your needs with me, before I knew what Pleasures were.”

He enfolded her in his arms, donii and all. “No, Ayla. You may have been ready, but I needed to understand that it was your first time, or it would not have been right.”

She was losing herself in his eyes again. His arms tightened and she gave herself up to him, until all she knew was his arms holding her, his hungry mouth on her mouth, his body against hers, and a dizzying, demanding need. She didn’t know when he swept her up and moved her away from the fireplace.

Her bed of furs reached up to accept her. She felt him fumble with the knot in her thong, then give up and simply raise her wrap. She opened herself to him eagerly, felt his rigid manhood search, and then find.

Fiercely, almost desperately, he sank his shaft deeply, as though to convince himself again that she was there for him, that he did not have to hold back. She raised to meet him, taking him in, wanting as much as he.

He drew back and plunged again, feeling the tension mount. Urged by the excitement of her total embrace, and the reckless delight of giving in entirely to the force of his passion, he rode the rising surge with furious joy. She met him at every crest, matching him thrust for thrust, arching to guide the pressure of his movement.

But the sensations she felt went beyond the push and pull within her cleft. Each time he filled her, she was conscious only of him; her body—nerves, muscles, sinews—were filled with him. He felt the pulling in his loins building, mounting, surging—then an unbearable crescendo as the pressure broke with a shuddering eruption as he bore down to fill her one last time. She rose to meet his final frantic drive, and the explosion diffused through her body with voluptuous release.

29

Ayla rolled over, not quite awake, but aware of some discomfort. The lump under her would not go away until she finally woke up to reach for it. She held up the object and, in the dim red light of a fire almost out, saw the silhouette of the donii. With a flash of recognition, the day before sprang vividly to mind, and she knew the warmth lying with her in the bed was Jondalar.

We must have fallen asleep after we made Pleasures,

she thought. In a happy glow she snuggled close to him and shut her eyes. But sleep eluded her. Snatches of scenes formed patterns and textures which she sorted through with her inner sense. The hunt, and Baby’s return, and First Rites, and, overlaid on all, Jondalar. Her feelings about him were beyond any words she knew, but they filled her with inexpressible joy. She thought of him as she lay beside him, until it became too much to contain—then she quietly slipped out of bed, taking the ivory figurine with her.

She walked to the mouth of the cave and saw Whinney and Racer standing together, leaning close. The mare blew a quiet nicker of recognition and the woman veered toward them.

“Was it like that for you, Whinney?” she said in soft tones. “Did your stallion give you Pleasures? Oh, Whinney, I didn’t know it could be like that. How could it have been so terrible with Broud and so wonderful with Jondalar?”

The young horse nuzzled in for his share of attention. She scratched and stroked, then hugged him. “No matter what Jondalar says, Whinney, I think your stallion gave you Racer. He’s even the same color, and there are not many brown horses. I suppose it could have been his spirit, but I don’t think so.

“I wish I could have a baby. Jondalar’s baby. I can’t—what would I do after he goes?” She blanched with a feeling close to terror. “Goes! Oh, Whinney, Jondalar is going to leave!”

She raced out of the cave and down the steep path, more by feel than sight. Her eyes were blinded by tears. She dashed across the rocky beach until she was stopped by the jutting wall, then huddled near it, sobbing. Jondalar is leaving. What will I do? How can I stand it? What can I do to make him stay? Nothing!

She hugged herself and hunkered down, leaning into the stone barrier as if trying to fend off some ravaging blow. She would be alone again when he left. Worse than alone: without Jondalar. What will I do here without him? Maybe I should leave too, find some Others and stay with them. No, I can’t do that. They will ask where I come from, and Others hate the Clan. I will be abomination to them, unless I make words that are untrue.