The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [282]
“I guess she does, but it’s more like she wants to. She knows what I want, and she does it. Baby just takes me where he wants to go, but he goes so fast.” Her eyes sparkled with the memory of her recent ride. It was always a thrill to ride the lion.
Jondalar recalled her clinging to the back of the cave lion, her hair, more golden than the reddish mane, flying in the wind. Watching her had made him afraid for her, but it was exciting—as she was. So wild and free, so beautiful …
“You’re an exciting woman, Ayla,” he said. His eyes carried his conviction.
“Exciting? Exciting is … the spear thrower, or riding fast on Whinney … or Baby, is that right?” She was flustered.
“Right. And so is Ayla exciting, to me … and beautiful.”
“Jondalar, you are making a Joke. A flower is beautiful or the sky when the sun drops over the edge. I am not beautiful.”
“Can’t a woman be beautiful?”
She turned aside from the intensity of his look. “I … I don’t know. But I am not beautiful. I am … big and ugly.”
Jondalar got up and, taking her hand, urged her up too. “Now, who is bigger?”
He was overpowering standing so close. He had shaved his face again, she noticed. The short beard hairs could only be seen up close. She wanted to touch his rough-smooth face, and his eyes made her feel they could reach inside her.
“You are,” she said, softly.
“Then you are not too big, are you? And you are not ugly, Ayla.” He smiled, but she only knew it because his eyes showed it. “It’s funny, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen thinks she’s ugly.”
Her ears heard, but she was too lost in the eyes that held her, too moved by her body’s response, to notice his words. She saw him bend closer, then put his mouth on hers, and she felt him put his arms around her and draw her close.
“Jondalar,” she breathed. “I like that … mouth on mouth.”
“Kiss,” he said. “I think it’s time, Ayla.” He took her hand and led her toward the sleeping furs.
“Time?”
“First Rites,” he said.
They sat down on the furs. “What kind of ceremony is it?”
“It is the ceremony that makes a woman. I can’t tell you all about it. The older women tell a girl what to expect and that it may hurt, but that it is necessary to open the passage for her to become a woman. They choose the man for it. Men want to be chosen, but some are afraid.”
“Why are they afraid?”
“They’re afraid they will hurt a woman, afraid they will be clumsy, afraid they won’t be able, that their woman-maker won’t rise.”
“That means a man’s organ? It has so many names.”
He thought of all the names, many vulgar or humorous. “Yes, it has many names.”
“What is the real name?”
“Manhood, I guess,” he said after a moment’s thought, “the same as for a man, but ‘woman-maker’ is another.”
“What happens if the manhood won’t rise?”
“Another man has to be brought in—it’s very embarrassing. But most men want to be chosen for a woman’s first time.”
“Do you like being chosen?”
“Yes.”
“Are you chosen often?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jondalar smiled and wondered if all her questions were the result of curiosity or nervousness. “I think because I like it. A woman’s first time is special to me.”
“Jondalar, how can we have a ceremony of First Rites? I am past my first time, I am already open.”
“I know, but there is more to First Rites than just opening.”
“I don’t understand. What more can there be?”
He smiled again, then leaned closer and put his mouth on hers. She leaned toward him, but was startled when his mouth opened and she felt his tongue try to reach inside her mouth. She backed off.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Don’t you like it?” His forehead creased with consternation.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to try again and see?” Slow down, he said to himself. Don’t rush this. “Why don’t you lie back and relax?”
He pushed her with gentle pressure, then stretched out beside her, resting on one elbow. He looked down at her, then put his mouth on hers again. He waited until her tension