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As he petted and stroked the little wolf, Jondalar felt an easing of tension, and he was reluctant to put him down. “What should I do with you, Wolf? I hate to make you go back. I suppose I could let you sleep with me.”
Then he frowned, realizing he was faced with a dilemma. How was he going to get back to his bed with the pup? It was cold out, and he wasn’t sure if the little animal would want to go outside with him, but if he went in through the Mammoth Hearth opening, he would have to walk through the Fox Hearth to reach his bed. Nothing in the world could have induced him to walk through the Fox Hearth at that moment. Jondalar wished he had his sleeping furs with him. With no fire it was cool in the annex, but sleeping in furs between the horses would have been warm enough. He had no choice. He would have to take the puppy out with him and back in through the front entrance.
He patted the horses, then, cuddling the puppy close to his chest, pushed back the drape and stepped out into the cold night. The wind, more noticeable this time, stung his face with an icy slap, and parted the fur of his parka. Wolf tried to squirm closer and whimpered, but made no move to get away. Jondalar moved carefully over the rough frozen ground and was relieved to reach the front arch.
The lodge was quiet when he stepped into the cooking hearth. He walked to his sleeping furs, and put Wolf down, glad that he seemed content to stay. Quickly, he pulled off his parka and footwear, then crawled into the furs taking the small wolf with him. He had found it was not as warm on the floor in the open area of the hearth as it was on the enclosed sleeping platforms, and he slept in his indoor clothes, which left them rumpled. It took a few moments to find a comfortable position and settle down, but before long the warm bundle of fur curled up next to him was asleep.
Jondalar was not so fortunate. As soon as he closed his eyes, he heard the night sounds and stiffened in resistance. Normally the breathing, shuffling, coughing, whispering sounds of the Camp at night were background noise, easily ignored, but Jondalar’s ears heard what he did not want to hear.
Ranec eased Ayla back on his furs, then looked down at her. “You are so beautiful, Ayla, so perfect. I want you so much, I want you to be with me always. Oh, Ayla …” he said, then bent down to breathe into her ear, and breathe in her woman-scent. She felt his full soft mouth on hers, and felt herself respond. After a while, he put his hand on her stomach, then began slowly to move it in a circular motion, exerting gentle pressure.
Soon he reached up and cupped a breast, and then he lowered his head and took a hardened nipple in his mouth and sucked. She moaned as the tingling reached inside and moved her hips toward him. He pushed himself against her, and she felt a warm hardness next to her thigh, as he reached to take her other nipple in his mouth, and suckled hard, making little pleasure noises.
He ran his hand down her side and hip, then across her leg and up the inside of her thigh, found her moist folds and reached inside her. She felt him search her depths and pushed up against him. He eased himself around until he was pressed against her, while he suckled one breast, and then the other, and then nuzzled between them.
“Oh, Ayla. My beautiful woman, my perfect woman. How have you made me ready so soon? It is the Mother’s way, Her secrets you command. My perfect woman …”
He was suckling again, she could feel the pressure as he pulled, and it sent shivers through her. Inside her, she felt a moving in and out, then his hand found her place of Pleasure. She cried out as he rubbed it, rhythmically, harder and faster. Suddenly, she was ready. She pushed against him moving her hips, crying out, and reaching for him.
He moved between her legs as she lifted them, helped guide him, then uttered a sigh of Pleasure as she felt him enter. His body moved back and forth, feeling the sensation building as he cried her name.
“Oh, Ayla, Ayla, I want you so much. Be my woman, Ayla. Be my woman,” Ranec said, as a great surge built. Her cries came in l
ittle rhythmic pants. He moved faster and faster until the warm wave of indescribable sensation broke free and washed over them.
Ayla breathed hard, catching her breath, as Ranec sprawled out on top of her. It had been a long time since she had shared Pleasures. The last time had been the night of her adoption, and she realized now that she had missed it. Ranec had been so delighted to have her and so eager to please, he almost tried too hard, but she had been more ready than she thought she would be, and though everything happened quickly, she did not feel unsatisfied.
“It was perfect for me,” Ranec whispered. “Are you happy, Ayla?”
“Yes, Pleasures with you feel good, Ranec,” she said. She heard him sigh.
They both lay still, enjoying the aftermath, but Ayla’s thoughts went back to his question. Was she happy? She wasn’t unhappy. Ranec was a good and considerate man, and she had felt Pleasure, but … something was missing. It was not the same as it had been with Jondalar, but she didn’t know what the difference was.
Maybe it was just that she wasn’t quite used to Ranec yet, she thought, as she tried to shift to a more comfortable position. He was beginning to feel a bit heavy. Ranec, feeling her movement, pulled up, smiled at her, then rolled over and lay beside her on his side, nestling close to her.
He nuzzled her neck, then whispered in her ear. “I love you, Ayla. I want you so much. Say you will be my woman.”
Ayla didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer yes, and she wouldn’t answer no.
Jondalar gritted his teeth and clutched at his sleeping fur, wadding it up in his fist as he listened, against his will, to the murmuring, hard breathing, and heavy rhythmic movement from the Hearth of the Fox. He pulled the covers over his head, but could not block out the muffled sound of Ayla’s voice crying out. He bit on a piece of leather to keep from making any sounds, but high in the back of his throat, his own voice cried out in pain and utter despair. Wolf, hearing, whimpered, scooted close to him, and licked the salty tears that the man tried to squeeze back.
He couldn’t stand it. Jondalar could not bear the thought of Ayla with Ranec. But it was her choice, and his. What if she went back to the carver’s bed again? He couldn’t bear hearing that again. But what could he do? Leave. He could leave. He had to leave. Tomorrow. In the morning, at first light, he would leave.
Jondalar didn’t sleep. He lay stiff with tension inside his furs when he realized they had only been resting, they were not through. Finally, when only the sounds of sleep could be heard in the lodge, he still didn’t sleep. He heard Ayla and Ranec over and over again in his mind, and envisioned them together.
With the first hint of light outlining the covered smoke hole, before anyone was stirring, he was up stuffing his sleeping furs into a haversack. Then putting on his parka and footwear, and taking his spears and the spear-thrower, he quietly walked to the first archway and pushed back the drape. Wolf started to follow him, but Jondalar told him to “stay” in a hoarse whisper, and let the drape fall behind him.
Once outside, he pulled the hood up against the sharp wind and tied it tight around his face, leaving little more than an opening to see. He pulled on the mittens that dangled from his sleeves by cords, shifted the haversack, and started out walking up the slope. The ice crunched under his feet, and he stumbled in the dim light of the early gray morning, blinded by hot tears, now that he was alone.
The wind blew hard and cold when he reached the top, buffeting him with crosscurrents. He paused, trying to decide which way to go, then turned south, following the river. It was difficult walking. The freeze had been enough to form a crust of ice over some of the melting drifts, and he sunk through up to his knees, and had to pull his feet out with every step. Where there were no snowdrifts, the ground was hard and rough, and often slick. He slipped and slid, and fell once, bruising his hip.
As the morning progressed, no glowing sun penetrated the heavy overcast sky. The only evidence of its appearance was the diffused but growing light of the shadowless gray day. He plodded along, his thoughts turned inward, hardly paying attention to where he was going.
Why couldn’t he bear the thought of Ayla and Ranec together? Why was it so hard for him to let her make her own choice? Did he want her just to himself? Did other men ever feel this way? Feel this pain? Was it that another man touched her? Was it fear that he was losing her?
Or was it more than that? Did he feel he deserved to lose her? She spoke easily about her life with the Clan, and he was as accepting as anyone else, until he thought about what his own people might think. Would she feel as free to talk about her childhood with the Zelandonii? She fit in so well with the Lion Camp. They accepted her without reservation, but would they if they knew about her son? He hated to think that way. If he felt so ashamed of her, maybe he ought to give her up, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
His thirst finally penetrated the murky niches of his introspection. He stopped and reached for his waterbag, then discovered he had forgotten to take it. At the next snowdrift, he broke through the crust of ice and put a handful of snow in his mouth, holding it there until it melted. It was second nature, he didn’t even have to think about it. He had been trained from childhood not to eat snow for thirst without melting it first, preferably before it was put in the mouth. Swallowing snow chilled the body, and even melting it in the mouth was a last resort.
