The Land of Painted Caves (Earth's Children 6)

It was familiar to Jondalar, and he tasted again. Where had he tasted this before? “Ah! The Losadunai!”

“What?” Joharran said.

“This is the drink the Losadunai serve at their Mother Festivals. It tastes light, but don’t underestimate it,” Jondalar warned. “This is potent. It sneaks up on you. Ayla must have made it. Did you see where she went after the ceremony?”

“I thought I saw her a while ago coming out of the ceremonial tent. She had her regular clothes on,” Joharran said.

“Did you see which direction she went?”

“There she is. Over there, where they are serving more of that new drink.”

Jondalar headed toward a sizable group of people milling around a large kerfed box, dipping out cups of liquid. When he saw Ayla, she happened to be standing next to Laramar. She handed him a cup she had dipped. He said something, and she laughed, then smiled at him.

Laramar looked surprised, then leered in response. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all, he thought. She had always been so standoffish before, hardly ever said a word to him. But she is Zelandoni now; they are supposed to honor the Mother at festivals. This may turn out to be an interesting festival. Suddenly Jondalar appeared. Laramar frowned with disappointment.

“Ayla,” Jondalar said. “I need to talk to you. Let’s get away from here.” He took her arm and tried to walk toward a less crowded place.

“Is there some reason you can’t talk right here? I’m sure I’ll be able to hear you. I haven’t suddenly gone deaf,” Ayla said, pulling her arm away.

“But I need to talk to you alone.”

“You had plenty of opportunity to talk to me alone before, but you couldn’t be bothered. Why is it suddenly so important now? This is the Mother Festival. I’m going to stay here and enjoy myself,” she said, turning to smile rather suggestively at Laramar.

He forgot. In his excitement about his new depth of understanding, Jondalar forgot. Suddenly it all came back to him. She had seen him with Marona! And it was true, he hadn’t spoken to her since then. Now she didn’t want to talk to him. Ayla saw his face turn white. He reeled, as if someone had hit him, and stumbled away. He looked so beaten and confused, she almost called him back, but bit her tongue to keep from speaking.

Jondalar walked around in a daze, lost in his own thoughts. Someone put a cup of something in his hand. He drank it without thinking. Someone else filled it again. She was right, he thought. He’d had plenty of time to talk to her, to try to explain things to her. Why hadn’t he done it? She had come looking for him, and found him with Marona. Why hadn’t he gone looking for her? Because he was ashamed and afraid he’d lost her. What was he thinking? He’d tried to keep Marona a secret from Ayla. He should have just told her. In fact he shouldn’t have been with Marona at all. Why had she been so appealing? Why did he want her so much then? Just because she was available? She didn’t even interest him now.

Ayla said she’d lost a baby. His baby! “That baby was mine,” he said aloud. “It was mine!” A few people passing by stared at him, staggering and talking to himself, and shook their heads.

That child she lost was his. She was called. He’d heard something about the terrible ordeal she went though. He’d wanted to go to her then, comfort her. Why hadn’t he? Why had he tried so hard to stay away from her? Now she didn’t want to talk to him. Could he blame her? He couldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see him again.

What if she didn’t? What if she really didn’t ever want to see him again? What if she never wanted to share Pleasures with him again? Then the thought struck him. If she refused to share Pleasures with him, he’d never be able to start a baby with her. He would never have another child with Ayla.

Suddenly he didn’t want to know that it was him. If it was a spirit that caused life to begin, it would just happen, no matter what anyone did. But if it was him, the essence of his manhood, and she didn’t want him, there would be no more children for him. It didn’t occur to him that he could have a child with another woman. It was Ayla he loved. She was his mate. It was her children he had promised to provide for. They would be the children of his hearth. He didn’t want another woman.

As Jondalar stumbled around with a cup in his hand, he drew no more attention than any of the other celebrants who were staggering back and forth to the places where food and drink were supplied. Some laughing people bumped into him. They had just filled a waterbag with a potent drink of some kind.

“Uhhh, sorry. Lemme fill your cup. Can’t have empty cups at a Mother Festival,” one of them said.

Never had there been such a festival. There was more food than anyone could eat, more brew and wine and other beverages than anyone could drink. There were even leaves to smoke, certain mushrooms and other special things to eat. Nothing was forbidden. A few people had been chosen by lot or had volunteered to refrain from festival activities to make sure the Camp remained safe, to assist the few who inevitably got hurt, and to take care of those who got out of hand. And there were no young children around for the revelers to stumble over or worry about. They had all been gathered together to the camp at the edge of Summer Meeting Camp being looked after by Doniers and others.

Jondalar took a drink from his recently filled cup, unmindful that he was losing most of it as he walked around with the sloshing cupful. He hadn’t eaten, and the liberally flowing beverages were having their effect. His head was swimming and his vision fuzzy, but his mind, still caught up in his private thoughts, was disassociated from everything. He heard dancing music and his feet took him toward the sound. Only vaguely did he see the dancers moving around in a circle in the flickering firelight.

Then a woman danced by and suddenly his vision cleared as he focused on her. It was Ayla. He watched her dance with several men. She laughed drunkenly. Staggering unsteadily, she broke away from the circle. Three men followed her, their hands all over her, tearing off her clothes. Unbalanced, she fell over in a heap with the three men. One of them climbed on top of her, roughly spread her legs apart, and jammed his engorged organ into her. Jondalar recognized him. It was Laramar!

Held by the sight, unable to move, Jondalar watched him moving up and down, in and out. Laramar! Filthy, drunken, lazy, shiftless Laramar! Ayla wouldn’t even talk to him, but there she was with Laramar. She wouldn’t let him love her, share Pleasures with her. She wouldn’t let him start a baby with her.

What if Laramar is starting a baby with her!

Blood rushed to his head. All he could see in his red haze was Laramar, on top of Ayla, on top of his mate, bouncing up and down, up and down. Suddenly, in a blazing fury, Jondalar roared, “HE’S MAKING MY BABY!”

The tall man covered the distance between them in three strides. He pulled Laramar off Ayla, spun him around, and smashed his fist into the stunned man’s face. Laramar crumpled to the ground, nearly unconscious. He didn’t know who hit him, or even what had happened.

Jondalar jumped on top o

f him. In a savage, ravaging frenzy of jealousy and outrage, he was hitting Laramar, punching him, hammering him, unable to stop. His voice so tight with frustration, its pitch rose to a squeal, as Jondalar screamed, “He’s making my baby! He’s making my baby!” repeating it over and over again, “He’s making my baby!”

Some men tried to drag him away, but he shook them off. In his maddened fury, his strength was almost superhuman. Several more tried to pull him away, but he was wild; they couldn’t contain him.