by Jean M. Auel
“What is the Gift of Pleasure?”
“That’s right! You’ve never known Pleasures, have you?” he said, amazed when he considered the idea. “No wonder you didn’t know when I … You’re a woman who’s been blessed with a child without ever having First Rites. Your Clan must be very unusual. Everyone I met on my Journey knew about the Mother and Her Gifts. The Gift of Pleasure is when a man and a woman feel they want each other, and give themselves to each other.”
“It is when a man is full and must relieve his needs with a woman, isn’t that right?” Ayla said. “It’s when he puts his organ in the place where babies come out. That is the Gift of Pleasure?”
“It’s that, but it’s much more.”
“Perhaps, but everyone told me I’d never have a baby because my totem was too strong. They were all surprised. He wasn’t deformed, either. He just looked a little like me, and a little like them. But it was only after Broud kept giving me the signal that I became pregnant. No one else wanted me—I’m too big and ugly. Even at the Clan Gathering there wasn’t a man who would take me, though I had Iza’s status when they accepted me as her daughter.”
Something about her story began to bother Jondalar, nagged at him, but floated just out of reach
“You said the medicine woman found you—what was her name? Iza? Where did she find you? Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know. Iza said I was born to the Others, other people like me. Like you, Jondalar. I don’t remember anything before I lived with the Clan—I didn’t even remember my mother’s face. You are the only man I’ve seen who looks like me.”
Jondalar was feeling an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach as he listened.
“I learned about a man of the Others from a woman at the Clan Gathering. It made me afraid of them, until I met you. She had a baby, a girl that resembled Durc so much, she could have been mine. Oda wanted to arrange a mating between her daughter and my son. They said her baby was deformed, too, but I think that man of the Others started her baby when he forced her to relieve his needs with him.”
“The man forced her?”
“And killed her first daughter, too. Oda was with two other women, and many of the Others came, but they didn’t give the signal. When one of them grabbed her, Oda’s first baby fell and hit her head on a rock.”
Suddenly Jondalar remembered the gang of young men from a Cave far to the west. He wanted to reject the conclusions he was beginning to draw. Yet, if one gang of young men would do it, why not another? “Ayla, you keep saying you are not like the Clan. How are they different?”
“They’re shorter—that’s why I was so surprised when you stood up. I’ve always been taller than everyone, including the men. That’s why they didn’t want me, I am too tall, and too ugly.”
“What else?” He didn’t want to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to know.
“Their eyes are brown. Iza thought something was wrong with my eyes because they were the color of the sky. Durc has their eyes, and the … I don’t know how to say it, the big brows, but his forehead is like mine. Their heads are flatter …”
“Flatheads!” His lips pulled back in disgust. “Good Mother, Ayla! You’ve been living with those animals! You let one of their males …” He shuddered. “You gave birth to … an abomination of mixed spirits, half human and half animal!” As though he had touched something filthy, Jondalar backed away and jumped up. It was a reaction born of irrational prejudice, of harsh, unthinking assumptions, never questioned by most people he knew.
Ayla didn’t comprehend at first, and she looked at him with a puzzled frown. But his expression was filled with loathing, just as hers was when she thought of hyenas. Then his words took on meaning.
Animals! He was calling the people she loved animals! Stinking hyenas! Gentle loving Creb, who was nonetheless the most awesome and powerful holy man of the Clan—Creb was an animal? Iza, who had nursed her and mothered her, who taught her medicine—Iza was a stinking hyena? And Durc! Her son!
“What do you mean, animals?” Ayla cried, on her feet and facing him. She had never raised her voice in anger before and she surprised herself at the volume—and the venom. “Creb and Iza, animals? My son, half human? People of the Clan are not some kind of awful stinking hyenas.
“Would animals pick up a little girl who was hurt? Would they accept her as one of them? Would they take care of her? Raise her? Where do you think I learned to find food? Or cook it? Where do you think I learned healing? If it were not for those animals, I would not be alive today, and neither would you, Jondalar!
“You say the Clan are animals, and the Others are human? Well, remember this: The Clan saved a child of the Others, and the Others killed one of theirs. If I could make a choice between human and animal, I’d take the stinking hyenas!”
She stormed out of the cave and down the path, then whistled for Whinney.
24
Jondalar was dumbfounded. He followed her out and watched her from the ledge. She mounted the horse with a practiced leap and galloped down the valley. Ayla had always been so complaisant, had never showed anger. The contrast made her outburst all the more astounding.
He had always thought of himself as fair and open-minded about flatheads. He thought they should be left alone, not bothered or baited, and he would not have intentionally killed one. But his sensibilities had been grossly offended by the idea of a man using a flathead female for Pleasures. That one of their males should have used a human female the same way had exposed a deeply buried nerve. The woman would be defiled.
And he had been so eager for her. He thought of the vulgar stories told by sniggering boys and young men and felt a shrinking in his loins, as though he were already contaminated and his member would shrivel up and rot off. By some grace of the Great Earth Mother, he had been spared.
But worse, she had birthed an abomination, a whelp of malignant spirits who couldn’t even be discussed in decent company. The very existence of such issue was hotly denied by some, yet talk of them had persisted.
Ayla certainly had not denied it. She openly admitted it, stood there and defended the child … as vehemently as any mother would if her child had been maligned. She was insulted, angry that he had spoken of any of them in derogatory terms. Had she really been raised by a pack of flatheads?
He’d met a few flatheads on his Journey. He’d even questioned in his own mind whether they were animals. He recalled the incident with the young male and the older female. Come to think of it, hadn’t the youngster used a knife made on a heavy flake to cut the fish in half, just like the one Ayla used? And his dam wore a hide wrapped around her, as Ayla did. Ayla even had the same mannerisms, especially in the beginning; that tendency to look down, to efface herself so she wouldn’t be noticed. The furs on her bed, they had the same soft texture as the wolfskin they had given him. And her spear! That heavy primitive spear—wasn’t it like the spears carried by that pack of flatheads he and Thonolan had met coming off the glacier?
It was right there in front of him all the time, if he’d only looked. Why had he made up that story about her being One Who Serves the Mother testing herself to perfect her skills? She was as skilled as any healer, perhaps more. Had Ayla really learned her healing skill from a flathead?
He watched her riding off in the distance. She had been magnificent in her rage. He knew many women who raised their voices at the least provocation. Marona could be a shrill, contentious, foul-tempered shrew, he recalled, thinking about the woman to whom he had been promised. But there was a strength in someone so demanding that had appealed to him. He liked strong women. They were a challenge, and they could hold their own and not be so easily overwhelmed by his own passions on the rare occasions when they were expressed. He’d suspected there was a rock-hard core to Ayla in spite of her composure. Look at her on that horse, he thought. She is a remarkable, beautiful woman.
Suddenly, like a splash of icy water, he realized what he had done. The blood
drained from his face. She had saved his life, and he had drawn away from her as if she were filth! She had lavished care on him, and he had repaid her with vile disgust. He had called her child an abomination, a child she obviously loved. He was mortified by his insensitivity.
He ran back into the cave and threw himself on the bed. Her bed. He had been sleeping on the bed of a woman from whom he had just cringed in contempt.
“Oh, Doni!” he cried. “How could you let me do it? Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you stop me?”
He buried his head under the furs. He hadn’t felt so wretched since he was young. He thought he was over that. He’d acted without thinking then, too. Would he never learn? Why hadn’t he exercised some discretion? He would be leaving soon; his leg was healed. Why couldn’t he have controlled himself until he left?
In fact, why was he still here? Why hadn’t he thanked her and gone? There was nothing holding him. Why had he stayed and pressed her for answers to questions that were not his concern? Then he could have remembered her as the beautiful, mysterious woman who lived alone in a valley, and charmed animals, and saved his life.
Because you could nor walk away from a beautiful, mysterious woman, Jondalar, and you know it!
Why should it bother you so much? What difference does it make that she … lived with flatheads?
Because you wanted her. And then you thought she wasn’t good enough for you because she had … she had let …
You idiot! You weren’t listening. She didn’t let him, he forced her! With no First Rites. And you blame her! She was telling you, opening up and reliving the hurt, and what did you do?
You are worse than he was, Jondalar. At least she knew how he felt. He hated her, he wanted to hurt her. But you! She trusted you. She told you how she felt about you. You wanted her so much, Jondalar, and you could have had her anytime. But you were afraid to hurt your pride.
If you’d been paying attention to her, and not worrying about yourself so much, you might have noticed she wasn’t behaving like an experienced woman. She was acting like a scared young girl. Haven’t you had enough of them to know the difference?
But she doesn’t look like a scared young girl. No, she’s only the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. So beautiful, and so knowledgeable, and so assured, you were afraid of her. Afraid she’d turn you down. You, the great Jondalar! The man every woman wants. You can be sure she doesn’t want you anymore!
You only thought she was assured, she doesn’t even know she’s beautiful. She really thinks she’s big and ugly. How can anyone think she’s ugly?
She grew up with flatheads, remember? Who would imagine they’d think about the difference? But then, who would imagine they’d take in a strange little girl? Would we take in one of theirs? I wonder how old she was? She can’t have been very big—those claw scars are old. It must have been frightening, lost and alone, clawed by a cave lion.
And healed by a flathead! How could a flathead know healing? But she learned from them, and she’s good. Good enough to make you think she was One Who Serves the Mother. You ought to give up flint knapping and become a storyteller! You didn’t want to see the truth. Now that you know, does it make a difference? Are you less alive because she learned her healing from flatheads? Is she less beautiful because … because she gave birth to an abomination? What makes her child an abomination?
You still want her, Jondalar.
It’s too late. She’ll never believe you again, never trust you. A new surge of shame rose up. He balled his fists and hit the furs. You idiot! You stupid, stupid, idiot! You spoiled it for yourself. Why don’t you go away?
You can’t. You have to face her, Jondalar. You don’t have clothes, you don’t have weapons, you don’t have food, you can’t travel with nothing.
Where are you going to get supplies? Where else? This is Ayla’s place—you have to get them from her. You’ll have to ask her, at least for some flint. With tools, you can make spears. Then you can hunt for food, and skins to make clothes, and a sleeping roll, and a backframe. It’s going to take time to get ready, and a year to get back, or more. It’s going to be lonely without Thonolan.
Jondalar burrowed deeper into the furs. Why did Thonolan have to die? Why didn’t that lion kill me instead? Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. Thonolan wouldn’t have done anything so stupid. I wish I knew where that canyon was, Little Brother. I wish a zelandoni could have helped you find your way to the next world. I hate to think your bones were left for scavengers to scatter.
He heard a clatter of hooves on the rocky path up from the beach and thought it was Ayla coming back. But it was the colt. He got up, went out on the ledge, and looked down the valley. Ayla was not in sight.
“What’s the matter, little fellow? Did they leave you behind? It’s my fault, but they’ll be back … if only for you. Besides, Ayla lives here … alone. I wonder how long she’s been here? Alone. I wonder if I could have done it?”
Here you are, crying over your stupidities, and look at what she’s been through. She’s not crying about it. She’s such a remarkable woman. Beautiful. Magnificent. And you’ve lost it all, Jondalar, you idiot! O Doni! I wish I could make it right.
Jondalar was wrong: Ayla was crying, crying as she’d never cried before. It didn’t make her less strong, it only made it easier to bear. She pushed Whinney until the valley was far behind, then stopped at an oxbow meander of a stream that was a tributary of the one near her cave. The land within the loop of the oxbow flooded often, leaving alluvial silt that provided a fertile base for lusher growth. It was a place she had hunted willow grouse and ptarmigan, and an assortment of animals from marmot to giant deer, who found the enticing spot of green impossible to resist.
She threw her leg over and slid off Whinney’s back, took a drink and washed her tear-streaked and dirty face. She felt as if she’d had a bad dream. The entire day had been a dizzying series of giddy emotional highs and oppressive lows, with each swing reaching greater peaks and dips. She didn’t think she could stand another swing, in either direction.
The morning had started well. Jondalar had insisted on helping her pick grain, and he had amazed her with the speed at which he learned. She was sure picking grain was not a skill he had acquired before, but once she showed him, he picked quickly. It was more than the extra pair of hands that helped, though. It was the company. Whether they talked or not, having someone near made her realize how much she had missed it.
Then there was a small disagreement. Nothing serious. She wanted to keep picking and he wanted to quit when the waterbag ran out. But when she returned from the stream and understood he wanted to try horse riding, she thought it might be a way to keep him there with her. He liked the colt, and if he liked riding he might want to stay until the colt was grown. When she offered, he had jumped at the chance.
It had put them both in such a good mood. That’s what started the laughter. She had not laughed like that since Baby left. She loved Jondalar’s laugh—just hearing it warmed her.
Then he touched me, she thought. No one in the Clan touches like that, at least not outside the boundary stones. Who knows what a man and his mate might do at night, under furs. Maybe they touch the way he touches. Do all the Others touch like that outside the hearth? I liked it when he touched me. Why did he run away?
Ayla had wanted to die with shame, sure she was the ugliest woman on earth, when he relieved himself. Then, in the cave, when he said he wanted her, that he didn’t think she wanted him, she almost cried with happiness. The way he looked at her, she could feel the warmth starting inside, the wanting, drawing-in feeling. He was so angry when she told him about Broud that she was sure he liked her. Maybe the next time he was ready …
But she would never forget the way he looked at her, like some disgusting piece of rotten flesh. He even shuddered.
Iza and Creb are not animals! They are people. People who took care of me and loved me. Why does he hate them? This was their land first.
His kind came later … my kind. Is that what my kind are like?
I’m glad I left Durc with the Clan. They might think he is deformed, Broud might hate him because he is my son, but my baby will not be some animal … some abomination. That was the word he said. He doesn’t have to explain it.
Tears started again. My baby, my son … He is not deformed—he is healthy and strong. And he is not an animal, not … abomination.
How could he change so fast? He was looking at me, with his blue eyes, he was looking.… Then he pulled away as though I would burn him, or as if I were an evil spirit whose name only mog-urs know. It was worse than a death curse. They only turned away and didn’t see me anymore. I was just dead and belonged to the next world. They didn’t look at me as if I were … abomination.
The setting sun brought the chill of evening. Even during the hottest part of the summer, the steppes were cold at night. She shivered in her summer wrap. If I had thought to bring a tent and a fur … No, Whinney would get anxious for the colt, and she needs to nurse.
When Ayla got up from the bank of the stream, Whinney raised her head from the lush grass, trotted to her, and flushed a pair of ptarmigan. Ayla’s reaction was almost instinctive. She pulled the sling from her waist and stooped to pick up pebbles in one motion. The birds had barely lifted off the ground before one, and then the other, plummeted back. She retrieved them, searched for the nest, and then stopped.
Why am I looking for the eggs? Am I going to make Creb’s favorite dish for Jondalar? Why should I cook anything for him, especially Creb’s favorite? But when she spied the nest—hardly more than a depression scratched out of the hard ground containing a clutch of seven eggs—she shrugged and collected them carefully.
