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By Root 1797 0

piece of dried meat to lunch on. She watched a bright yellow-breasted meadowlark trill gloriously from an open perch, then take to wing and continue its song in flight. A pair of golden-crowned sparrows, warbling their woeful tune of descending pitch, flitted among the blackberry canes at the border of the open field. Another pair of black-capped, gray-coated birds named by the chick-a-dee-dee of their call, darted in and out of their nesting hole in a fir tree near a small creek winding its way through the dense vegetation at the foot of the knoll. Small, vivacious brown wrens scolded the others as they carried twigs and dried moss to a nest cavity in an ancient, gnarled apple tree, proving its youthful fecundity with its flock of pink blooms.

Ayla loved these moments of solitude. Basking in the sun, feeling relaxed and content, she thought about nothing in particular, except the beautiful day and how happy she was. She was completely unaware that anyone else was near until a shadow fell across the ground in front of her. Startled, she looked up into Broud’s glowering face.

No hunting trips had been planned for that day and Broud had decided to hunt alone. He hadn’t been very diligent; his hunting foray was more an excuse to take a walk on the warm spring day than to provide meat he didn’t especially need. He had seen Ayla relaxing on the knoll from a distance and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to berate her for laziness, caught in the act of sitting still.

Ayla jumped up when she saw him, but that annoyed him. She was taller and he didn’t like looking up at a woman. He motioned her down and prepared to give her a sound scolding. But as she lowered herself, the unresisting, unresponsive look that glazed her eyes irritated him even more. He wished he could think of some way to get a reaction out of her. At the cave, he could at least make her get something for him to see her jump to his command.

He looked around, then down at the woman sitting at his feet, waiting with unruffled composure for him to get on with his rebuke and be on his way. She’s worse than ever since she became a woman, he thought. The Woman Who Hunts, how could Brun do it? He noticed her ptarmigan and thought of his own empty hand. Even the look on her ugly face is insolent; she’s gloating because she got those birds and I don’t have anything. What can I make her do? There’s nothing out here I can tell her to get. Wait, she’s a woman now, isn’t she? There’s something I can make her do.

Broud gave her a signal, and Ayla’s eyes flew open. It was unexpected. Iza told her men only wanted that from women they considered attractive; she knew Broud thought she was ugly. Broud hadn’t missed Ayla’s shocked surprise, her reaction encouraged him. He signaled her again, imperiously, to assume the position so he could relieve his needs, the position for sexual intercourse.

Ayla knew what was expected. Not only had Iza explained, she had often seen adult members of the clan engage in the activity—all the children had; there were no artificial restraints in the clan. Children learned adult behavior by emulating their parents, and sexual behavior was just one of many activities they mimicked. It always puzzled Ayla, she wondered why it was done, but it didn’t disturb her to see a young boy bounce harmlessly on a young girl in conscious imitation of adults.

Sometimes it wasn’t imitation. Many young girls of the Clan were pierced by pubescent boys who lingered in the limbo of not-yet-men, before their first kill; and occasionally a man, beguiled by a young coquette, pleased himself with a not-quite-ripe female. Most young men, though, felt it beneath their dignity to play games with former playmates.

But Ayla had no male playmates near her age except Vorn, and since the earlier days when Aga actively discouraged their association, there had never developed any close contact between them. Ayla was not particularly fond of Vorn, who imitated Broud’s actions toward her. Despite the incident on the practice field, the boy still idolized Broud, and Vorn was not about