The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [265]
“Why did the Mother give us the Gift of Pleasure? You’d have to ask Zelandoni that.”
“Why do you always say ‘Gift of Pleasure’? Many things make people happy and give them pleasure. Does it give a man such pleasure to put his organ in a woman?”
“Not only a man, a woman … but you don’t know, do you? You didn’t have First Rites. A man opened you, made you a woman, but it’s not the same. It was shameful! How could those people let it happen?”
“They didn’t understand, they only saw what he did. What he did was not shameful, only the way he did it. It was not done for Pleasures—Broud did it with hatred. I felt pain and anger, but not shame. And no pleasure, either. I don’t know if Broud started my baby, Jondalar, or made me a woman so I could have one, but my son made me happy. Durc was my pleasure.”
“The Mother’s Gift of Life is a joy, but there is more to the joining of man and woman. That, too, is a Gift, and should be done with joy for Her honor.”
There may be more than you know, too, she thought. Yet he seemed so certain. Could he be right? Ayla didn’t quite believe him, but she was wondering.
After the meal, Jondalar moved over to the broad flat part of the ledge where his implements were laid out. Ayla followed and settled herself nearby. He spread out the blades he had made so he could compare them. Minor differences made some more appropriate for certain tools than others. He picked out one blade, held it up to the sun, then showed it to the woman.
The blade was more than four inches long and less than an inch wide. The ridge down the middle of its outer face was straight, and tapered evenly from the ridge to edges so thin that light shone through. It curved upward, toward its smooth inner bulbar face. Only when held up to the sun could the lines of fracture raying out from a very flat bulb of percussion be seen. The two long cutting edges were straight and sharp. Jondalar pulled a hair of his beard straight and tested an edge. It cut with no resistance. It was as close to a perfect blade as it was possible to get.
“I’m going to keep this one for shaving,” he said.
Ayla didn’t know what he meant, but she had learned from watching Droog to accept whatever comments and explanations were given without asking questions that might interrupt concentration. He put the blade off to one side and picked up another. The two cutting edges on this one tapered together, making it narrower at one end. He reached for a smooth beach rock, about twice the size of his fist, and laid the narrow end against it. Then, with the blunted tip of an antler, he tapped the end into a triangular shape. Pressing the triangle’s edges against the stone anvil, he detached small chips which gave the blade a sharp, narrow point.
He pulled an end of his leather breechclout taut and poked a small hole in it. “This is an awl,” he said, showing it to Ayla. “It makes a little hole for sinew to be drawn through to sew clothes.”
Had he seen her examining his clothes, Ayla suddenly wondered. He seemed to know what she had been planning.
“I’m going to make a borer, too. It’s like this, but bigger and sturdier, to make holes in wood, or bone, or antler.”
She was relieved; he was just talking about tools.
“I’ve used an … awl, to make holes for pouches, but none so fine as that.”
“Would you like it?” He grinned. “I can make another for myself.”
She took it, then bowed her head, trying to express gratitude the Clan way. Then she remembered. “Thank you,” she said.
He flashed a big pleased smile. Then he picked up another blade and held it against the stone. With the blunted antler hammer, he squared off the end of the blade, giving it a slight angle. Then, holding the squared-off end so that it would be perpendicular to the blow, he struck one edge sharply. A long piece fell away—the burin spall—leaving the blade with a strong, sharp, chisel tip.
“Are you familiar with this tool?” he asked. She inspected it, then shook her head and gave it back.
“It’s a burin,” he said. “Carvers use them, and sculptors—theirs are a little