The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [296]
“The Cave Lion is a hard totem to live with, Jondalar. His tests have been difficult—I wasn’t always sure I would live—but his gifts have made them worth it. I think his greatest gift to me is you,” she finished in a soft voice.
He stuffed the torch in a crack, then took the woman he loved in his arms. She was so open, and honest, and when he kissed her she responded so eagerly that he almost gave in to his wanting of her.
“We have to stop this,” he said, holding her shoulders to put a space between them, “or we’ll never get ready to leave. I think you have Haduma’s touch.”
“What is Haduma’s touch?”
“Haduma was an old woman we met, the mother of six generations, and greatly revered by her descendants. She had many of the Mother’s powers. The men believed that if she touched their manhood, it would make them able to rise as often as they wished, to satisfy any woman, or many of them. Most men wish for that. Some women know ways to encourage men. All you have to do is get close to me, Ayla. This morning, last night. How many times yesterday? And the day before? I’ve never been able, or wanted to so much. But if we stop now, we’ll never finish the caches this morning.”
They cleared away rubble, levered aside some large boulders, and decided where to establish caches. As the day progressed, Jondalar thought Ayla seemed unusually quiet and withdrawn, and he wondered if it was anything he had said or done. Maybe he shouldn’t seem so eager. It was hard to believe she was so ready for him every time he wanted her.
He knew many women held back and made a man work for his Pleasures, though they liked them, too. It had seldom been a problem for him, but he’d learned not to seem too eager: there was more challenge for a woman if a man seemed a bit restrained.
When they began moving the stored food to the rear of the cave, Ayla seemed even more reserved, bowing her head often and kneeling in quiet repose before picking up a rawhide-wrapped package of dried meat or a basket of roots. By the time they started making trips down to the beach to bring up more stones to pile around their winter supplies, Ayla was noticeably upset. Jondalar was sure it was his fault, but he didn’t know what he had done. It was late afternoon when he saw her angrily trying to pick up a boulder much too heavy for her.
“We don’t need that stone, Ayla. I think we should take a rest. It’s warm, and we’ve been working all day. Let’s go for a swim.”
She stopped tugging at the rock, pushed her hair out of her eyes, undid the knot in her thong, and pulled off her amulet as her wrap fell away. Jondalar felt a familiar stirring in his loins. It happened every time he saw her body. She moves like a lion, he thought, admiring her sleek, sinewy grace as she ran into the water. He doffed his breechclout and raced in after her.
She was churning upstream so hard that Jondalar decided to wait until she came back downstream, and let her use up some of her irritation in effort. She was floating easily on the current when he caught up to her, and she did seem more relaxed. When she turned over to swim, he ran his hand along the curve of her back, from her shoulder, following the dip of her waist, and over her smooth rounded buttocks.
She shot ahead of him and was out of the water with her amulet back on and reaching for her wrap when he waded out.
“Ayla, what am I doing wrong?” he asked, standing in front of her, dripping.
“It’s not you. I’m the one who’s doing it wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Yes I am. I’ve been trying all day to encourage you, but you don’t understand Clan gestures.”
When Ayla had first become a woman, Iza had explained not only how to care for herself when she bled, but how to clean herself after she had been with a man, and the gestures and postures that would encourage a man to give her the signal, though Iza had doubted she would need the information. Men of the Clan were not likely to find her attractive no matter what gestures she used.
“I know when you touch me in certain ways,