The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [286]
“I must be getting heavy,” he said, pulling himself up to partially support his weight on an elbow.
“No,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re not heavy at all. I don’t think I ever want you to get up.”
He bent down to nuzzle an ear and kiss her neck. “I don’t want to get up either, but I think I should.” He disengaged himself slowly, then lay down beside her, fitting an arm under her so that her head rested in the hollow beneath his shoulder.
Ayla was dreamily content, completely relaxed, and acutely aware of Jondalar. She felt his arm around her, his fingers caressing her lightly, the play of pectoral muscles under her cheek; she could hear his heartbeat, or perhaps her own, in her ear; she smelled the warm musky scent of his skin, and their Pleasures. And she had never felt so cared for or so coddled.
“Jondalar,” she said after a while, “how do you know what to do? I didn’t know those feelings were in me. How did you?”
“Someone showed me, taught me, helped me to know what a woman needs.”
“Who?”
She felt his muscles tense, detected a change in the tone of his voice.
“It’s customary for older, more experienced women to teach young men.”
“You mean like First Rites?”
“Not quite. It’s more informal. When young men start coming into their heat, the women always know. One, or more, who understands he is nervous and unsure of himself will be there for him, and will help him over it. But it’s not a ceremony.”
“In the Clan, when a boy makes his first kill—on a real hunt, not just little animals—then he is a man and has a manhood ceremony. Coming into his heat doesn’t matter. It’s hunting that makes him a man. That’s when he must assume adult responsibilities.”
“Hunting is important, but some men never hunt. They have other skills. I suppose I wouldn’t have to hunt if I didn’t want to. I could make tools and trade them for meat or skins, or whatever I wanted. Most men hunt, though, and a boy’s first kill is very special.”
Jondalar’s voice took on the warm tones of memory. “There is no real ceremony, but his kill is distributed to everyone in the Cave—he doesn’t eat any of it. When he walks by, they remark to each other so he can hear, how big and wonderful his kill is, and how tender and delicious. The men invite him to join them for gaming or talking. The women treat him like a man instead of a boy, and make friendly jokes with him. Almost any woman will make herself available to him, if he’s old enough and that’s what he wants. A first kill makes him feel very much a man.”
“But no manhood ceremony?”
“Each time a man makes a woman, opens her, lets the life force flow into her, he reaffirms his manhood. That’s why his tool, his manhood, is called woman-maker.”
“It might do more than make a woman. It might start a baby.”
“Ayla, the Great Earth Mother blesses a woman with children. She brings them into the world and to a man’s hearth. Doni created men to help her, to provide for her when she is heavy with child, or nursing and caring for an infant. And to make her a woman. I can’t explain it any better. Maybe Zelandoni can.”
Maybe he’s right, Ayla thought, snuggling down beside him. But if he isn’t, a baby could be growing in me now. She smiled. A baby like Durc, to cuddle and nurse, and take care of, a baby that would be part Jondalar.
But who will help me when he’s gone? she thought with a stab of anguish. She recalled her difficult previous pregnancy, her brush with death during delivery. Without Iza, I wouldn’t be alive. And if I did manage to have a baby alone, how could I hunt and take care of a baby? What if I got hurt, or killed? Who would take care of my baby then? He’d die, all alone.
I can’t have another baby now! She bolted up. What if one has been started? What should I do? Iza’s medicine! Tansy or mistletoe, or … not mistletoe.